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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/30092706">Memory's Requiem for the Living</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Firepanda99/pseuds/Firepanda99'>Firepanda99</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Original Work</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Complicated Relationships, Fire Powers, Gen, Growing Up, Healing, How Do I Tag, I got bored during quarantine, Implied/Referenced Torture, Made-up Species, Manipulation, Non-Linear Narrative, Not described in detail at all, Swearing, Unreliable Narrator, War, but never any actually fighting because I can't write fight scenes, questionable worldbuilding</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-03-17</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-04-22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-15 21:49:21</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>22,597</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/30092706</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Firepanda99/pseuds/Firepanda99</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>And then they run. They run, and the band of fire begins to go out, the edges disappearing in a cloud of smoke. And he lifts his blades back up, his shoulders aching with the effort, but his eyes burning, burning brighter than Hell. Cause he would bring Hell. And every enemy that dares take a step towards the retreating figures of his men meets the ends of his blades and his flames and his hatred.<br/>Until they bring him down, his chest cut to ribbons, his knees and ankles and shoulders twisted painfully, his chest cold and empty of any power, his face shoved in the dirt, and him standing above Brin. And Brin lets them, his men long since gone in the night and his heart grasped in the hands of the devil.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Original Character &amp; Original Character</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. He fights because he knows he cannot hide</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Hi everybody! Aside from the embarrassing stories I had to write back in elementary school, this is the first thing I've ever written or shared, so welcome! I don't know if people actually read original works on here, but I'm too scared/intimated to write fanfics, so this is what you get. Any and all suggestions, tips, or comments are welcome (especially if you know how to tag stuff!) Hope you enjoy!</p><p>By the way, the chapter title is from "Outrunning Karma" by Alec Benjamin. If you've never listened to his music, I highly recommend it! The songs themselves don't really have any connection to the story, I just thought the lyrics worked. Some of the songs I don't really even know, I just heard them on a randomized playlist and thought hey, that would work, so you don't have to listen to the songs or anything.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>               The weight on his chest grounds him. As he breathes in, the hand is pressure, a reminder. As he breathes out, it’s a kind, gentle touch. It reminds him to breath. Sometimes, he breaths out too harshly, and his chest moves out of reach of the hand. Sometimes he takes in too violent a breath, and the hand digs into his ribs. Other times, it’s just right.</p><p>                When he opens his eyes, it’s not dark, it’s not too bright blobs. It’s Tohm.</p><p>                Sometimes that makes him panic more. Sometimes that makes him so very sad. Sometimes that makes him want to pull his hair out. Sometimes that makes him want to punch something, to light it up and watch it burn.</p><p>                Sometimes, <em>sometimes</em>, that breaks his heart and mends it and relights the fire and feels like <em>home</em> all at once and it’s too much, it’s too good, it’s all he could ever want. And he hates it, but he <em>needs</em> it and he <em>wants</em> it and he feels like he can’t live without it ever again.</p><p>                He can feel the tears moving down the sides of his cheeks, but he can’t make his hands move to hide them or make his eyes close or make them stops falling. So he just keeps crying.</p><p>                <em>Brin? Brillien? Can you hear me?</em></p><p>                He can, but he can’t make himself respond. God, isn’t making himself <em>breath</em> enough?</p><p>                <em>It’s okay. You’re okay. You’re here, with us. With me.</em> Tohm reaches up with his hand and Brin can <em>feel</em> him wipe the tears away, but he can’t say or do anything, he can’t make the tears stop. All he can do is stare.</p><p>                Until Tohm’s fingers touched his hair. Suddenly he could move, and he was up and gone in the blink of an eye. Suddenly the silent buzz in his ears was a roaring wind, and the comforting cool air was a biting, stabbing ice, and the small pebbles underfoot were piercing shards of rock. It was nothing, and then it was everything.</p><p>                Because no one touched his hair, not in the last five year, not like that. Not unless they gripped it painfully and forced him to watch his friends, his allies and family, killed and tortured and slaughtered. Until he grabbed the knife and killed them himself, not a single hesitant breath or shake in his hands, not a single emotion in his eyes. His collar had grown a leash, and he’d walked in the small circle around and around not realizing there was more land beyond it. Because how can you know there’s more out there when you’ve been blinded to it? When you’re told to kill the monsters, you don’t ask what they’ve done. You kill the fear instead.</p><p>                But this was Tohm. And vaguely, very vaguely, Brin can remember, somewhere between the gentle fingers of his mother-<em>not mother</em>- combing through his hair at night, huddled under the trees or sodden boards of the broken shack as the rain chilled their bones, and the claws of the Rallän-<em>Na</em><em>lrû</em>- digging into his scalp and pulling the hair from the roots, his knees grounded into the stone and his eyes forced to watch, there was Tohm. At some point, maybe, there was a hand ruffling his hair with a laugh, with a smile.</p><p>                After he picked up his bow and sword for the first time, after he walked to the front lines, after he walked off the field and his hair soaked with bloo-<em>stop stop stop stop stopstopst</em>- no one touches his hair, not like that.</p><p>                He opens his mouth, tries to tell Tohm not to do that, but it’s too many words. So, instead, he gasps out something that hopefully sounds like a <em>no</em>.</p><p>                Tohm, still crouching near the fence post Brin had been lying against, simply puts his hands up slowly. <em>I’m unarmed</em> he says. “Sorry, I won’t do that. How are you feeling, Brin?”</p><p>                His legs and arms shake as he pushes himself up, leaning heavily against the post, taking a minute and breathing heavily. “I need a pint,” he says.</p><p>                Tohm lets out a strangled laugh, like he wasn’t sure if that was appropriate in the moment but couldn’t resist none the less. “I think Calla might just kill me if I gave you one in this state. Plus, I’m not sure that the-”</p><p>                “Fuck off. Don’t tell me what you think, don’t get this idea th -”</p><p>                “Okay, okay. I just worry-”</p><p>                “Then don’t.”</p><p>                “Okay.” And so they walk towards the Pit, were most of the others have already gathered, bowls of soup and pints overflowing already being passed around. Brin may lean on Tohm more than he would have wanted to as they walked over, but no one needs to know that, not even Brin. Tohm just keeps the information to himself.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>               The blades feel wrong in his hands. Sure, he learned how to hold a sword, how to swing and block and defend with human ones. But for the past four years, he’d held only fine Selyre blades. He’d learned how to kill and maim and take people apart with Selyre ones. His hands had been rebroken and formed around them, and he been forced onto a battlefield once again with Selyre blades melded to his palms. He’d easily slaughtered hundreds of times more humans holding Selyre blades then Selyre he’d killed with human ones.</p><p>                The blades feel wrong in his hands. And everyone around him, it seems, are just as uncomfortable as him. Colfren, the bastard, is standing to Brin’s left, practically in his blind spot, his blades drawn, his legs in a fighting stance, his eyes never leaving Brin’s exposed back, ready to kill him at the slighted flinch of blades. He’d kill Colfren first if he was going to attack. He was the most obvious threat, everyone else was far enough away that it’d take a few steps to reach Brin, and they’d also have to disentangle their blades from their belts. No matter how closely they were watching him, they’d be too slow. The safe distance they were trying to maintain from him would be their downfall in eliminating him. Even so, his flames, after hours of standing in the sun, would easily burn them, and the rest of the camp, down in a matter of seconds.</p><p>                “Alright, that’s enough. Put the blades back,” Colfren sneers behind him, his voice dropping low to hide the shaking.</p><p>                “What great practice holding the blades for a second has been.” Brin does not drop the blades.</p><p>                “You’re lucky you even get to go outside, you fucking purple mutt.”</p><p>                Brin tenses, his eyes catching on the dark purple streaks in his otherwise brown curls, his mind all too aware of the slight point of his ears, his claw like fingers, his lilac-speckled eyes. Slowly, he turns to Colfren, the bladed hands dropping carelessly to his sides. He smiles, his extended canines on full display like fangs. “I’m pretty sure Commander Kerling is in charge, not you.” He takes a step towards Colfren, whose left eye begins to twitch.</p><p>                “You think you’re oh so important and oh so much better than us, don’t you? You were a ratty little street brat when we found you, and you’re a ratty little brat now. Just cause Tohm is sentimental enough to whisper in the commander’s ear doesn’t change anything. I knew we were right to be suspicious of you from the start. Apparently killing dozens of us on the battlefield was not convincing enough for them, but don’t be mistaken. You take one wrong step, say one wrong word, make one wrong look, and I will personally be the one to remove your head from your body.”</p><p>                “Brave words for a man who’s cowering in a corner. And it was hundreds of you, not dozens.” Brin smiles again, before letting the blades clatter carelessly to the ground as he held up his cuffed wrists. “And these make it pretty hard to use my hands, especially independently of each other.” Looking down, he kicks the blades as if in disgust, before walking back towards to weapons rack. Colfren stays, blessedly, silent.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>                “I had never, <em>never</em>, hated myself more than I did when you took me. Sure, my whole life had been just me and my mom, hiding in shadows and hoods and under porches, never staying in one place for more than a few days, maybe a week. But you, all of you, you treated me like some kind of animal. You shoved me to the ground and tied me up and spit on me and dragged me through the dust. Then you threw me into you fucking wooden, cold, windowless basements and acted like I wasn’t there as you talked about me. Talk about what I was.</p><p>                “And I knew, I knew from the weird looks people in the towns would give me, I was different, and not in a good way. But God, you all looked at me like I had killed your fucking families. I was <em>eight</em>, I didn’t even know what I really was or what I could do. All I knew was you looked at me and hated me for something I couldn’t control, I couldn’t hide, I couldn’t do anything about. As if I asked to be born like this, to be born at all? God, I had never hated myself more than I did then. I didn’t hate you, I hated myself and I was scared of you.</p><p>                “But <em>you</em>, you talked them out, you got me out of that basement and those fucking iron cuffs.  You acted, for the first time since my mom died, like I was a person, not a monster.  And then you taught me how to read and write. Then you taught me how to fight. You put the first sword in my hands. You guided my first arrow. You taught me how to properly hold a shield and a knife.</p><p>                “I was a kid who only had one thing in his life to depend on, and lost her, and you were the first person to be there, to help me and reassure me and just be there. So of course, I did whatever you wanted. I knew you would never, I don’t know, <em>love me</em>. I knew what I was by then, I knew that no human could ever look at me and accept me or care or whatever. I knew it was impossible. But you at least didn’t shove me to the ground and spit in my eyes. You at least took the time to treat me like I had feelings. So yeah, how else could I repay you? How else could I make it so that you would always keep looking at me like that? So I took your fucking shield and sword and I walked onto your battle field and I fought and killed your enemies for you. I did everything you asked, I did everything for you so that you would keep acting like you cared about me.”</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>                At this point, he was used to the dark, the cold, the quiet. It was just like his first year with the Rallän all over again. Of course Tohm had to rip open the curtain and stomp down the steps with his bright torch.</p><p>                “You sure you want to bring that so close to me?” he asks, not even bothering to stand or look up. He knew it was Tohm.</p><p>                “Tell me the truth. Tell me right now.”</p><p>                At that, he does look up, his eyes squinted against the bright light. “You’re gonna have to be a bit more specific than that.” The chains rattle loudly as he shifts slightly. His foot was falling asleep again.</p><p>                “What did they do to you? What did they tell you? Don’t tell me lies, tell me the truth. Right now.” Tohm’s words sounded strangely like he cared, even though his tone felt like it was about to rip him apart.</p><p>                “Not this again. What did they tell you this time?” He takes in the blood splattered armour adorning Tohm’s chest, obviously fresh from some sort of battle or confrontation.</p><p>                “Nothing. Absolutely nothing,” Tohm grits out. “They asked if they were right all along. They asked how you were doing. If you were… comfortable. What did they have to be right about?”</p><p>                His stomach twists painfully, and not from hunger this time. “Wouldn’t you love to know.”</p><p>                “Brillien I’m giving you a chance here. If you want to ever get out of here, you need to tell me the truth. Right. Now.”</p><p>                “How strangely familiar this all feels,” he laughs, ducking his head and turning away from the light. “God, it’s too fucking bright.” And suddenly their plunged into darkness. The fire feels nice flowing through him. He’s been in the dark so long, completely empty. The constant feeling of nausea increases temporarily as the iron pushes back even stronger against him, but he ignores it. It’s nothing compared to the iron training he had.</p><p>                He hears the sound of metal blades being drawn and breath being stopped, but when he makes no move to use his power, Tohm relaxes once again. Well, at least not use it in any way Tohm can see. It’s fucking cold in there, sue him for warming himself up for the first time in forever.</p><p>                Tohm walks closer to the open curtain, to the triangle of light spilling in. “Don’t do that.” He sounds both gravely and breathless.</p><p>                “Don’t take the moral high ground and act like humanity is the hero.”</p><p>                “What?”</p><p>                His mouth audibly slams shut.</p><p>                “Brin, please. Five years, you were gone for five years, almost six. The Commander of Embers didn’t appear for a year. What did they do? I know you, and I know you couldn’t possibly have been a spy this whole time. You were only eight.”</p><p>                “Hmmm, so a spy isn’t appropriate for kid, but a solider is.”</p><p>                ‘I- Brin please, just tell me.”</p><p>                “They opened my eyes to all your fucking bullshit.”</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>                He was empty. Aside from the few meager torches still lit around him, he was out of resources, the moon light useless. His breath comes in raggedly as he takes the few seconds gifted to him to catch his breath, the sound of his men still fighting around him. Squinting, he tries to look out, to see how many there still are to fight. Dragging in an almost painful breath, he uses up one of their limited torches. As his fist connects with the ground, the light spread out, slipping through the cracks, and lighting up the rows and rows and <em>row</em> of enemies still battle ready, armor and swords gleaming.</p><p>                They’re doomed. They can’t win, they can’t beat them. If only it were day, if only he could draw power form the sunlight, this ambush would not be so dire. Around him, though, his men are being needlessly and mercilessly slaughtered. And come daylight, there would be none of them left.</p><p>                Hands shaking, he reaches forward, his fingers scrabbling through the dirt until they close around the handles of his dual blades. Swords in hand, he pushes himself first up onto his knees, then shakily up to his feet. By now, the light illuminating the battlefield had disappeared. Taking a deep breath, he reaches out, grabbing any source of light he can.</p><p>                As the energy enters him, he feels slightly steadier on his feet, his arms shake just that much less. And then, with the swing of his swords, he releases it. A huge band of fire, tipped with blue, pulsing and pushing. Pushing back against the line of enemies and leaving his men behind. It grew, expanding down half the field, reaching far beyond the enemy line, and pushing them back, the heat scalding, those in front burning.</p><p>                <em>Retreat! </em>His voice rings out as he looks around. At his mean panting and bleeding and barely standing, some fallen to their knees while others tried to pull them up. <em>Retreat!</em></p><p>                For a second, nothing happens. His men don’t move, looking at him. And how he must look. Not an inch of him not covered in dirt and blood, his hood and mask long since lost, his hair hanging in his face, the curls straightened by blood and sweat, his arms and legs shaking, barely standing.</p><p>                And then they run. They run, and the band of fire begins to go out, the edges disappearing in a cloud of smoke. And he lifts his blades back up, his shoulders aching with the effort, but his eyes burning, burning brighter then Hell. Cause he would bring Hell. And every enemy that dares take a step towards the retreating figures of his men meets the ends of his blades and his flames and his hatred.</p><p>                Until they bring him down, his chest cut to ribbons, his knees and ankles and shoulders twisted painfully, his chest cold and empty of any power, his face shoved in the dirt, and <em>him</em> standing above Brin. And Brin lets them, his men long since gone in the night and his heart grasped in the hands of the devil.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Unsay these spoken words, find hope in the hopeless, unburn the ashes</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>              The chair is uncomfortable. Or maybe it’s the iron cuffs the pull his wrists and elbows together painfully behind his back. Which are pinned between himself and the chair by his body and the rough hands holding him there by his shoulders. Maybe It’s the edge of multiple swords flashing in his peripheral vision, a warning or a threat if he’s ever seen one. Or maybe it’s the dried blood on his skin and his armor and in his hair that’s been there for- how long has it been? Days? Weeks, maybe? Either way, it itches and burns terribly. Maybe it’s the feeling of all their glares, people he regarded wearily and as threats, then as comrades or even family, then as enemies, and now as, well now he’s not sure. He just knows he doesn’t want to be here.</p><p>                Yeah, it’s definitely not <em>just</em> the chair that is making him uncomfortable.</p><p>                Kerling hasn’t moved. His mouth and jaw look tense enough to break, the thick arms that he had laid across the desk to show his ownership and power were ruined by the white knuckled grip he had on his interlocked fingers. His eyes were just as beaty and judgey as Brin can remembered.</p><p>                For his part, Brin hasn’t stopped looking Kerling straight in the eyes either, nor has he said a single word about the fucking chair situation.</p><p>                “Werlyn,” Kerling finally says, and Tohm steps closer to the desk, his back left arm tucked behind his back the only thing Brin can see while still maintaining eye contact with Kerling.</p><p>                “Sir?”</p><p>                “You care to explain to me why the hell it’s in my office.”</p><p>                <em>It? Really? Right to his face?</em> He was a little too on edge to smirk, so he just kept watching Kerling’s eyes.</p><p>                “Um, well sir, Brillien, he’s not a traitor. He was a prisoner of war sir, the… <em>things</em> he went through, sir, because we failed to rescue him. His actions were not made with a clear mind, nor where they his own. But more than that, sir, he has information, valuable information, as you already know. But he has even more information, sir, more useful information. Years in Nalrû’s guard, at his righthand side. He knows how their military works, how they move, how they think. He knows all their strategies, all their techniques and training. He knows their plans. He knows the history and how the Selyre work. Sir, all this information could turn the war. Their weaknesses, we would know them all.”</p><p>                Kerling just hums “And he’s agreed to cooperate with us then? Or have we found other ways to extract this information?”</p><p>                Tohm opens his mouth the speak again, by he beats Tohm to it. “Fuck you. I’m not telling you shit.”</p><p>                Kerling just hums again, before leaning back in his chair, trying to imitate nonchalantness, but his shoulders remain too tense.</p><p>                If he had the energy, he would burn the mustache off Kerling’s face and get rid of his ugly lips too.</p><p>                “There are ways to make you speak, little Selyre.” He bears his fangs in response.</p><p>                As if anything they did would compare to that year. He’ll wait them out. Eventually they’ll get bord, and then they’ll get reckless and careless. And then, then he’ll burn them all to the ground.</p><p>                Kerling’s face twitches and Tohm’s voice quickly jumps in. But he doesn’t care.</p><p>                <em>Remember this moment. Remember them all.</em></p><p> </p><p> </p><p>                “Hey, kid. How are you doing? My name’s Tohm. What’s yours?”</p><p>                He looks up at the man, crouching in front of him. He’s young, his red-brown hair tickling his neck, and his blue eyes, they’re different than the others. He’s different from the other.</p><p>                <em>Tohm</em>.</p><p>                Tohm’s… talking to him? Tohm’s not… hurting him. Tohm’s…smiling at <em>him</em>?</p><p>                “It’s okay if you don’t want to talk just yet. Those cuffs though, they look pretty uncomfortable. Will you let me take them off for you?” As the man reaches for his wrists, he quickly jerks back, hiding them between his stomach and knees.</p><p>                Last time he tried to take them off, the men had yelled and pinned the chain to the floor.</p><p>                “It’s okay, I just want to take them off. They burn, don’t they?”</p><p>                Hesitantly, he nods. <em>Why is he asking me this?</em></p><p>                “I guess I’ll tell you the good news first then, how’s that? We’re gonna get you out of here, okay? You’re gonna come stay with us. Let me tell you, you will never taste better beef stew than the one my Calla makes. How’s that sound, huh? Fresh stew, warm bed, some nice new clothes? And definitely no iron cuffs.”</p><p>                “That sounds…nice,” he says, hesitantly look up at the man. “Can you really…can you really take these off?”</p><p>                “Of course, kid.” At that, Tohm suddenly pulls a key out of nowhere.</p><p>                He can’t help but gasp. “How did you do that?”<br/>                “Well, a magician never reveals his secrets. How about you, can you do any tricks?”</p><p>                “Maybe…” The cuffs fall off with a <em>clink </em>and immediately, the horrible burning and weird nauseous feeling disappear. “Thank you, sir.”</p><p>                “You can call me Tohm, kid. What about you, can I know your name? I mean, you know my name <em>and </em>you’ve seen my tricks, but you haven’t given me anything.”</p><p>                “Brin, my name’s Brin. And, and I can show you something, but it has to be outside.”</p><p>                “Outside, huh? Well, why don’t we go?” Slowly standing up, Tohm reaches a hand out towards him. And for the first time, the hand stays open and doesn’t reach out to touch him or hit him, it doesn’t hurt, it isn’t scary.</p><p>                So he takes it, and he walks out of the dark, scary room into the light.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>                “And I kept doing it, every single battle we faced, I did it, until they took me. And you have no idea what I went through, no idea what they did. And God, suddenly I hated myself all over again. I hated my human half, and now there’s nothing left for me to hate. Because they hate humans. Because humans are the ones who started this whole fucking mess. Stupid, selfish, greedy, jealous, fucking pathetic humans. So they beat the human part of me till I hated it just as much as they did.</p><p>                “So there was nothing, I had nothing, I <em>was </em>nothing. I thought… I thought, after what I’d done, you would never be able to even pretend to like me. Could barely stand me how I was, but now? Now that I’d killed Burtlen, killed Rugter, all of them? God, I thought I had nothing left to hate about myself.</p><p>                “And you never came, you never… doesn’t matter. I knew they were right. You would never forgive me, or care or whatever. You <em>never </em>came.</p><p>                “God, I didn’t want to believe them. But they were right, weren’t they? Cause you didn’t look for me, and then you said I was a traitor, and it was just like the first time all over again. I’m just some dirty fucking Selyre animal. And I’m a savage, vicious, bloodthirsty beast. God, I’m the worst of both fucking worlds! I’m savage and blood thirsty like Selyre and I’m selfish and self-serving like humans.</p><p>                “They told me what I needed to hear, and then they put the knife in my hands, and <em>I</em> killed them. Cause I didn’t want to do it anymore. So I made them suffer, and I made all of you suffer, and I made my life better at the cost of theirs.</p><p>                “And I fucking hate my human part and I hate my Selyre part, and I hate who I am so go ahead, do whatever the fuck you want because it won’t matter. There’s nothing left.”</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>                It’s like half the army is surrounding him, a semicircle of men holding buckets full of water. He doesn’t care. The sunlight is warm on his skin, and it’s the gentlest touch he’s felt in so long, it’s so warm, so powerful. He can feel like fire roaring in his stomach, licking the surface of his skin, the energy buzzing just below. God, how long was he locked in that dark basement?</p><p>                Tohm and Kerling’s eyes were boring into his back. He could physically feel them. What a thing. Being constantly watched his whole life, being assessed, being surveyed, being observed. Looked at for threats, for missteps, for any chance to correct and puni-</p><p>                The feeling of being watched and hated is nothing new, and the sixth sense he developed was truly out of self-preservation. Even here, surrounded by <em>humans</em> that he could easily fry and skewer without a scratch on him, he just can’t stop.</p><p>                “Whenever you ready, Purple,” Colfren growls to his right. Slowly he turns his head until he looks Colfren right in the eye. Then he lights the ground beneath his feet.</p><p>                Colfren lets out the most pathetic scream he had ever heard, jumping a mile and a half in the air and back, the buck of water flung carelessly in the air and doing more damage to Colfren’s pride than to the fire.</p><p>                Of course, this was a mistake, but it was worth it. Even if the gallons of ice-cold water and the wind knocked out of him as he was tackled to the ground would disagree. His ribs protest, but his eyes never leave Colfren. He may have smiled; he may not have.</p><p>                When Colfren’s boot connected with his face and blood sprayed from his nose, he definitely was not smiling.</p><p>                With a growl, the energy rolling through his body uncontrollably and the angry steaming from his ears, he tries to stand, but the 200-pound men on his back disagree. The hand suddenly ripping at his hair makes him buck even harder.</p><p>                “Get off him!” Tohm was suddenly there, and for a second, he was relieved and happy. Tohm would make them stop, Tohm would save him. Then the hand in his hair twists again painfully, and he turns his head back into the dirt. It wasn’t to hide his face; it was because there was nothing there. Nothing at all.</p><p>                “Enough. Let him up.” Even Kerling the Bastard had his moments, apparently.</p><p>                With one last growl and twist, Colfern was gone. Then 200 pounds were lifted one at a time. Then Tohm was reaching out a hand, and his flinch was so small that no one notices. No one noticed.</p><p>                Instead, he slaps the hand away and pushes himself up onto not-shaking hands and knees. When Tohm reaches out again, he growls and stands up himself.</p><p>                He runs a hand through his hair, his fingers ghosting over his burning scalp.</p><p>                “So you can make fire. What else? What about that light thing you did? Do that.” Kerling really had some balls, didn’t he?</p><p>                “No.”</p><p>                “What was that?</p><p>                “I’m done with this shit. You want a new weapon, go find some other kid.” It probably would have gone better if there wasn’t blood flowing down his face and his words weren’t off because of his deviated septum. With a crack, his nose pops back into place as he pushes past Colfren.</p><p>                “Where do you think you’re going? Have you forgotten, you’re not one of us. You don’t get to just walk around and do whatever you want. You’re our prisoner.”</p><p>                “Then stop me,” he sneers, the smirk coming involuntarily across his face and the fire automatically dancing across his fingertips. He’s dosed in water and 200-pound men again before the world goes black.</p><p>                <em>Fuck ‘em all.</em></p><p> </p><p> </p><p>                The stone floor is cold against his naked side. The iron cuffs rub uncomfortably into his wrists. The metal bars of the drain dig into his ribs. The water soaks into his bones and freezes him from the inside out. He curls tighter around himself, drawing himself into a smaller and smaller ball to conserve heat. Or to make himself a smaller target. Who knows. He uselessly gives a weak tug at the chain connecting his cuffs only a few inches from the grate.</p><p>                The hand on his shoulder surprises him. He jumps as far as the cuff allow, the metal <em>clink</em> echoing in the room and making the cuffs dig into the top of his wrists. The bones ache.</p><p>                “You’re freezing,” the bodiless hand purrs. It definitely purred. Instead of looking, he curls tighter around himself. “You know, you don’t have to be cold? Your power, there so much more to it, so much more you can do.”</p><p>                The chattering of his teeth, his ragged breaths, and the rattling of his chains as he shivers makes it almost hard to hear the voice.</p><p>                “They never taught you. Not properly. They were too afraid, weren’t they? Afraid of who you are, of what you could do? They didn’t want to find your full power, because they were too scared of being powerless.</p><p>                “You don’t have to hide here. We can help you. Help you to learn you true power, to reach it, to master it. Would you like that? To never be powerless again. For your brethren to teach you who you really are and show you your true potential?</p><p>                “You need not be afraid here, not anymore, and not of any Selyre. And starting now, you need not be cold.”</p><p>                The hand grasps his shoulder tighter, but instead of the usually hollowed, weakened, breathless feeling he had come to expect, he feels his power awaken. But not like it had before. No, it didn’t flicker, it burst and burned and flared. And slowly, oh so slowly, he stops shivering and his teeth stop chattering and the goosebumps disappear. Slowly, he feels warmth and, somehow, a comforting touch.</p><p>                “That’s it, there you go.” He hadn’t even realized that the hand had left his shoulder, and the warmth still spread.</p><p>                That was him. That was his power. That was all him. It wasn’t just fancy light tricks during the day, it was more than that. It was comfort and protection and the nicest thing he’d felt in months. This whole time, his whole life, this is what Tohm had hidden from him? Why? Why would he hide something so nice?</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Chapter Title from "Train Wreck" by James Arthur</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. I don't want this to break you, but I've got no one else to talk to</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>              “Look, Brin, I get it. You blame me for what happened to you. I blame myself too. And I’m so sorry. I can’t express how sorry I am. I’ll never be able to apologize enough to you. So go ahead, blame me. Don’t forgive me. Keep blaming me. I don’t care- “</p><p>                “Well you should.”</p><p>                “Brillien-”</p><p>                “I just wanted you to care!” <em>Shit</em>.</p><p>                Why had he said that? What was he thinking? What had he just done?</p><p>                “Shit.” Realizing he was still looking at Tohm with his wide-eyed, deer-caught-in-headlights look, he quickly turned his head, looking at the wall in shock instead.</p><p>                “Brin,” Tohm says, his hand reaching out, and his voice. God, his voice. It actually sounded like he hurt, it actually sounded like he car-</p><p>                “Get the fuck out. Leave me the fuck alone.” When he hears the stool creak as Tohm stands and the <em>thunk</em> of his footsteps across the cool, cellar stones, it’s the worst feeling in the world.</p><p>                It’s like a simultaneous coiling and loosening in his stomach. And he’s not sure if he’s relieved, or sad that Tohm left. He’s not sure if he’s supposed to feel happy or disappointed.</p><p>                It can’t be the former without him hating Tohm. It can’t be the latter without him hating himself.</p><p>                <em>Decisions, decisions</em>.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>                “Brin, I’m on your side. Please, just give me something useful, anything.”</p><p>                How many times has he come in here now, beg him for scraps and details? He feels bad for his wife, Tohm really doesn’t understand rejection, nor does he take it well. He thought by now Calla would have told him it was useless.</p><p>                “You wouldn’t do this. I know you, Brin, don’t try and pretend I don’t. You’re good, remember?” God, he would laugh if he wasn’t so, <em>so</em> tired. He knew Brillien as well as he knew the handle of his own sword. He knew when best to use him, he knew how to handle him, he knew how to angle and direct him to the most destructive, the most devastating strike. And like a sword, Brin did what he was made to do, no questions, no objections. What else could he possibly do.</p><p>                Doesn’t Tohm get that? He had no choice. It was what he was forced to do. Every time.</p><p>                “One thing, Brin, just one thing.”</p><p>                God, he was just so tired. But it wasn’t just tired, tired. It wasn’t like a nap in the sun or a warm bowl of soup near the fire kind of tired. It was a real kind of tired. A painful kind of tired. The kind of tired where he can feel his heart beat slower and slower, and his brain getting squeezed tighter and tighter, and his spine getting stiffer and stiffer. It’s something so much more, so much more than he could ever understand.</p><p>                He’s not tired he’s… <em>tired</em>.</p><p>                “Just one thing,” he says, and it’s more like a whisper, it’s barely a breath.</p><p>                Tohm still jerks like he shouted. “Yes, just one thing, and then I promise, I’ll get you out of here. I promise.”</p><p>                <em>Don’t make promises. Never promise anything</em>. “Just one thing,” he said again, the sound muffled by his knees that had risen like a barrier between his words and Tohm’s ears. Man, he couldn’t possibly look more like a stupid, little kid. His knees still don’t move.</p><p>                One thing. But what can he tell him? A part of him is saying to tell what hurts the most, that way there’s nothing left to worry about, nothing to hold over him, it’ll be out there, gone, no longer eating him whole. Another part tells him to not say anything, to make up a lie too outlandish to believe or tell something so insignificant, so inconsequential he may as well have said nothing at all. Another part, a quieter part, tells him to say what they want, to tell Tohm the killing blow, what he really wants to know. An even quieter part, a part so quiet he barely even knows it’s there, tells his to say everything, every last detail, every last scar and crack and break and bruise. That last part he decidedly ignores.</p><p>                “My mother’s dead,” he finally says.</p><p>                “Brillien, we already know that” Tohm says with a sigh, and for a minute, he feels almost like he is a child being scolded.</p><p>                “I killed her. It turns out, human bodies aren’t made to carry Selyre children.”</p><p>                “Wait, no, how is that-”</p><p>                “It’s a miracle she made it to term. It’s a miracle I was born alive.” <em>Lucky me</em>.</p><p>                “That doesn’t make sense, you told us that-”</p><p>                “Figure it out. There’s your one thing. Now go.”</p><p>                And, surprisingly, he does.</p><p>                What a lie those voices were. In the end, it doesn’t matter which part he listened to. No matter what he said, it’s all subjective isn’t it?</p><p>                <em>One man’s trash is another man’s treasure</em>.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>                “Ah, Brillien, the mission went well, I assume. You’re back earlier than I expected.”</p><p>                “Yes Rallän,” he says, dropping to his left knee just to the side of the Rallän, his right hand fisted at the small of his back and his left wrapped around his front to grasp his right shoulder, his head bowed.</p><p>                “Well done, my boy,” the Rallän says, a hand coming to rest on his shoulder. “Sit. Eat. I’m sure you must be hungry.”</p><p>                “I am fine, Rallän.” The hand on his shoulder lifts and the sound of a chair scraping the floor follows as the Rallän kicks it out. He takes the invitation for what it is and sits in the chair.</p><p>                “Do you know why some of us have been blessed with such powers, my boy?” the Rallän asks as he fills Brins glass with rich, red wine.</p><p>                “No, sir,” he says as the Rallän begins to fill his empty plate.</p><p>                “As you may or may not remember me telling you, our people, we originated from the trees, the forests. You wouldn’t know it by looking at us now, but we’ll get to that part. All in due time. Long limbs and clawed fingers to climb trees, elongated ears to better hear threats both above and below. Though, I haven’t the faintest clue about the purple. It certainly doesn’t help with camouflage.</p><p>                “A densely packed forest, however, did not yield great land for agriculture. Most nutrients in the soil were taken up by the trees and plants already there. The dense canopies ensured that most sunlight and rain never reached the ground.</p><p>                “Depending on who you ask, some will say that there was a nasty bird disease that year, others will tell you that winter came early, and they migrated much too soon, while others still will tell you it was humans over hunting. Either way, the Selyre found themselves with a great shortage on food. A short time later, and they had lost their first to hunger.</p><p>                “As a solution, the Rallän at the time instructed his people to build a garden, in which they would plant fruits and vegetables to sustain them when game was scarce. The Selyre soon found this to be a hopeless endeavor. And with the encroaching cold weather, it was next to impossible. So they turned to the gods.” The Rallän paused in his story telling as he gave Brillien a tight smile. “Eat, my boy.” Mechanically, the fork moved back and forth between the plate and his mouth.</p><p>                “They had nothing to offer the gods, all the food they would have given was gone. So they took their dead, dressed in traditional burial clothing, every last one of them, and brought them to the Sacred Ground of Sylna.</p><p>                “’Please,’ the Rallän begged. ‘We beg of you, your grace. We have nothing left to offer you, except these blesseds’ eternal faith. We’ve nothing to hunt, and out fields have turned against us. Please, your Divin’d, I beg of you, help us.’</p><p>                “And so, upon each member of the families of the dead, a gift one given. To guide the water and sun light through the trees to the plots. To direct the wind to carry pollen and not to rip and tear. To mold the earth to allow for the plants to be sown. And time passed, the families grew, and so did their powers.</p><p>                “And that, my boy, is from where our gifts came to be.”</p><p>                “And your power? Where does it come from?” Only too late does he realize his mistake. But the Rallän only smiles instead.</p><p>                “Eat, my boy. That is a story for another time.”</p><p>                So he eats, and he thinks of the dead who died so that the sun could roar through his veins.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>                “Some people just want to watch the world burn, my boy.”</p><p>                And he couldn’t agree more. Not as he pulls his mask up over his nose, and his hood over his eyes. Not as he grabs his twin swords from the table, lines of deep red fire pulsing through them. Not as he barely holds himself back from charging onto the field.</p><p>                The violence. The bloodshed. The carnage.</p><p>                The impulse. The desire. The need.</p><p>                Revenge, sweet, sweet revenge. It flares in his stomach and burns on his tongue and bubbles past his lips. He <em>needs</em> it.</p><p>                He’s ready to watch the world burn, everyone else be damned.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Chapter title from "Deep End" by Birdy</p><p>Fun Fact, everything except maybe the first hundred words of the first paragraph were written in the same day. Which means names and world building were more or less made up on the spot. Opps. The wonders of online classes and being stuck inside due to quarantine.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. You reap what you have sown, you're the reason you're alone</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>                 At some point soon after he was taken, he turned 14. And then 15. Then 16, 17, 18. And now, apparently, he’s 19, and Brin has no idea what to do with that information.</p><p>                Calla’s standing there holding some type of pastry, and Ferlyn’s standing next to her, his head only reaching her knee and his hand opening and closing around her skirt excitedly. Kenna is also there, and he hasn’t seen her for, <em>apparently</em>, six years, and he <em>would</em> be happy, whether he showed it or not, whether he wanted to be or not, but he was still stuck on the 19 thing. He was 19 now? What was he supposed to do with that? What happened now? Damned if he knew.</p><p>                Tohm’s there too, but that not important.</p><p>                Apparently, he turned 19 a few weeks ago, or was it a month or two? Doesn’t matter, but it does because that makes a difference. Either he was with Narlû, or he was locked in the basement cell here.</p><p>                Yeah, it makes a big fucking difference.</p><p>                But who cares that he’s 19 when for the past six years it hasn’t mattered? They may as well have told him he was 14 and he would have taken it with as much a grain of salt as 19. In fact, he has no idea what day it actually is. He has no idea when his birthday was either. And that makes him sad.</p><p>                If he doesn’t even know, if he doesn’t even care, why do these people? Why would they bother to remember, or make a cake, or even show up?</p><p>                (The fact that it could have been just a few weeks ago and they didn’t bother to tell him then doesn’t matter. As a matter of fact, it doesn’t even cross his mind.)</p><p>                Kenna shifts, and her armor and sword clack together, and he can’t help the way his eyes widen, and he immediately goes on defense, and his eyes move towards her sword.</p><p>                “Sorry, Lyn,” she says, cause she’s the only one who’s ever called him that, and suddenly it’s back to the pastry-feeling moment, and it all too weird and different and fast, it feels like he’s being jerked around every which way on a horse. And it’s not a good feeling. “It’s so good to see you again.”</p><p>                He feels nauseous even though there’s not a scrap of iron on his body, and his throat burns like he’s going to throw up flames.</p><p>                And then he does throw up- food, not flames.</p><p>                There might be yelling, there might be movement, there might be nothing. He doesn’t know. All he knows is that that’s Kenna’s hand rubbing his back and Kenna’s voice telling him “it’s okay. Everything’s gonna be okay. I’ll never leave, not again. I promise.”</p><p>                God, again with the promises.</p><p>                <em>Don’t make promises. Never promise shit like that</em>.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>                “They were right, right? You never cared, not even in the slightest, never. That whole time, you were just waiting, and watching, weren’t you? And then when I finally snapped, you were right, you knew it all along.</p><p>                “They told me. They <em>told </em>me you would never accept me. And then you locked me up all over again, called me a fucking spy, said you never should have picked me up off that street.</p><p>                “They may hate that I’m human, but they still accepted me. The Rallän told me I was still one of them, he taught me everything I could ever want to know about myself, he taught me how to use my powers because you were all too afraid to do it. And he forgave me, for everything I’d done against the Selyre. You made me blind, you filled my head with shit about how savage and monstrous Selyre were, you made me afraid to be that part of myself, you told me the evil was the Selyre. And he forgave me and showed me more.</p><p>                “What about you? Huh? Can you forgive me? Was I blinded by them? Or am I just another animal, a spy and a traitor who should burn in Hell? Huh? Tell me! What am I? What do you want from me?</p><p>                “I’m done. I’m done with all these stupid, fucked up games. I’m done with all you manipulative, self-serving people. I’m done being used and jerked around in <em>your</em> stupide war that I never had anything to do with in the first place. This is a war of old men. I wasn’t even born when this all started. I don’t see how anything I’ve done involves this war. I don’t get why I have to fight <em>your fucking battles</em>.</p><p>                “I don’t care about your fucking approval or whatever fucked up shit we had going on all those years ago. That left the minute you gave up on me and pretended I was dead.</p><p>                “You know what, go back to that. Go back to thinking I’m dead, because I might as well be. I’m done, I don’t want to be here anymore. I’m done.”</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>                Tohm bends down to one knee next to the kid, whose dark feature resemble his mom too much to look like Tohm’s kid.</p><p>                “Remember all those stories I use to tell you,” Tohm whispers in the kid’s ear, and Brin watches. “About the brave fearless kid who always stood up and fought for what was right, for what he believed in?”</p><p>                The kid’s eyes widen as they look at him, and he can’t figure out why. Is it fear, shock, disgust?</p><p>                “<em>Win</em>,” the kid says, and Brin’s not sure, exactly, what he just said. He might have been trying to say Brin. He might have been trying to say Lyn. Brin doesn’t care which of his names the kid was trying to say. He shouldn’t be saying his name. Not a kid like him. Not in a tone like that.</p><p>                Stories? Brave and fearless? What was right? What he believed in?</p><p>                He was scared shitless in every camp, so he fought to prove his worth.</p><p>                He was scared shitless on every battlefield, so he fought to survive.</p><p>                There was no bravery or beliefs. There never was.</p><p>                The kid should not be looking at him like that. He should not be hearing stories about him like that. He shouldn’t be saying his name like that. He shouldn’t be saying his name at all.</p><p>                God, Brin hates his own fucking name.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>                “Brin, this is Kenna. She’s only a few years older than you, but she’s been holding a sword since she could walk. I couldn’t think of a better teacher for you.”</p><p>                “Wait, why? Do you not want to teach me anymore?”</p><p>                “No Brin, I’ve just taught you all I can. Don’t worry though, I still have a few more tricks up my sleeve.” With a smile, Tohm turns him back towards the girl, Kenna, and walk away.</p><p>                “Are you the boy? The part Selyre?” she asks, her dark, almond eyes narrowing.</p><p>                Hesitantly, he nods, not sure what type of reaction to expect after a question like that.</p><p>                It definitely wasn’t the one he got.</p><p>                “No way! Oh my gosh this is so cool!”</p><p>“What? You’re not… <em>scared</em> of me? You don’t hate me?”</p><p>                “What? No way, are you kidding? This is the coolest day every! Do you have powers? Can you show me?”</p><p>                “Tohm says I’m not allowed to if he’s not there or we’re not on the battlefield.”</p><p>                “Dang it. I guess we’ll have to wait for the next battle,” she says with a pout, her black hair falling in her face as she looks at the ground in disappointment.</p><p>“Wait, you’ve been in battle? Do you think… think they’ll make me fight next time?”<br/>
                “I haven’t yet, but I bet I will soon. I’m the best sword fighter of all the kids here. And you have powers! There’s no <em>way</em> they won’t let you fight!”</p><p>                <em>But, what if I don’t want to fight?</em> He’s too afraid to ask. She seems so excited to fight, what if she hates him for not wanting to? The only person here who <em>likes</em> him and thinks his powers are <em>cool</em> and he can’t risk it. He can’t. “No way, I can’t wait,” he says instead.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>                When she looks at him like he’s a traitor, when she refuses to be anywhere near him, it hurts. It hurts more than that first year. It hurts so much and too much and more than he can ever admit. To himself. To her. To anyone.</p><p>                Just because he doesn’t admit it, doesn’t mean it doesn’t still hurt.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>                The curtain opens, and then closes immediately after the person enters. Their heavy footsteps stop at the bottom of the stairs and then the tray is thrown his way, most of the food jumping off it.</p><p>                Slowly, he opens his eyes and looks up to see Colfren, his hand resting on his sword pommel, his side turned towards the curtain, ready to run.</p><p>                He can’t help the growl that slips out at the sight of him. If he had a kill list, Colfren would be at the top, above Kerling, above Tohm, above everyone.</p><p>                The burn scar on his side always starts to hurt whenever he sees him. How ironic, isn’t it?</p><p>                Colfren grunts in response. “Eat your food so I can leave.”</p><p>                He kicks the metal tray, the soup spilling everywhere and splashing the bottoms of Colfren’s boots.</p><p>                “You fucking brat,” Colfren yells, and then his face is suddenly being ground into wet, cold, rough stone, his arms pulled painfully in their socks beneath him as the short chain strains against the wall. “You think you’re so tough, huh? You think you’ve won? Don’t forget your place here, you little shit. We got you, you’re at our mercy now. You’re not so big and bad anymore.”</p><p>                “You’re so tough, beating up a chained and injured prisoner. How many times did I knock you down in battle? You’d have been long dead if there hadn’t been more pressing matters.”</p><p>                The boot on the back of his neck pushes down harder, and suddenly it’s harder to breath.</p><p>                “Don’t think I’ve forgotten about all your little tricks. You may have been Tohm’s little pet back then, and by extension Kerling’s, but now, now you’re nothing. I could kill you right now, and everyone would thank me.</p><p>                “‘The little traitors gone, he finally killed that leeching monster, thank God we never have to look at his disgusting little face again.’</p><p>                “It’s about time you finally learned your place, and I will gladly teach it to you until the day you die.  No more passes, no more special treatment, no more pats on the head for you. I told them from day one you weren’t to be trusted and looks like I’ve finally been vindicated. So, finally, while everyone spits in your face, they’ll be patting my back and praising my name.”</p><p>                When the boot lifts slightly, he can’t help the gasp and cough that comes out.</p><p>                “Go one, eat you soup like the animal you are,” Colfren says, and then suddenly a hand grabs his hair and shoves his face into the puddle on the ground, the small pieces of peas and carrots getting mashed onto his face.</p><p>                He growls and kicks and struggles and swears. He won’t let him do this, he’s not going to just lie down, not again, not to him, not to any of them.</p><p>                When he manages to turn his head slightly and spit on Colfren’s boots, he finally releases Brin’s head and steps back.</p><p>                “God damn it!” he says. With a finally kick, Colfren picks up the tray and leaves.</p><p>                Brin changes his mind. He’s not going to kill Colfren. He’s going to stake him to the ground and rip him apart, limb for limb. And then, then he’ll kill every last person in this fucking camp as Colfren watches.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>                “You want to go for a walk?”</p><p>                Blinking up blearily, he realizes it’s Tohm. “Fuck off,” he says, then drops his head back onto his knees.</p><p>                “I’m serious. Come on, let’s get you out of here.”</p><p>                When he feels a tug on the chain before hearing it hit the ground, he realizes that Tohm <em>was</em> serious. A set of iron shackles are placed around his ankles, <em>as if that could stop him</em>. Then, grabbing the chain connected to his wrists with an apologetic smile, Tohm leads him out.</p><p>                <em>Like a fucking animal</em> he can hear Colfren sneer. Every last thought vanishes as he steps into the sunlight.</p><p>                It was like it had barreled right into his chest, leaving him breathless and shaking. It takes all his power not to fall to his knees right there in front of all those men.</p><p>                It’s been days, <em>weeks</em> since he’s been out, and the way the light wraps itself around him, the way it fills him mind and soul, the way it kisses every aching inch of him, it feels so good he could cry.</p><p>                When he comes back, he realizes he’s been standing there for too long, if the look on the soliders’ faces are anything to go by. When his eyes unconsciously flit to Tohm, though, the smile there is the weirdest thing he’s ever seen.</p><p>                It makes his stomach twist again and his heart beat faster. He hates it, and yet, his head falls down so that his hair and the shadows hide his blush.</p><p>                As they walk down the path, it feels almost familiar. Afternoon walks side by side, the weary and judgmental looks of the other soldiers and people. Thank God for the iron cuffs reminding him who and where and what he is.</p><p>                “Thank you. For sharing the information yesterday. I brought it to Commander Kerling. You’re going to meet with him tomorrow night. I managed to convince him to let you come out today. I’d appreciate if you didn’t embarrass me.” At the last part, he looked over with a mocking smile.</p><p>                He doesn’t look back at Tohm.</p><p>                “Look,” Tohm says, his voice dropping quietly. “I’m sticking my neck out for you because I know that you’re good. I know that what everyone thinks isn’t true. Just work with them. Tell them just one thing, just like you told me. Just one thing. Then we can get you out of that cell, you can go out on as many walks as you want, you can-”</p><p>                He tunes Tom out eventually. He tunes it all out. The iron, the talking, the stares, the guards. For once, he just enjoys the warmth of the sun, the gentle breeze, the soft grass. He feels… he feels happy? Safe? Comfortable?</p><p>                Whatever the feeling is, he likes it. He really likes it.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Chapter title from "Superhero" by Hayd</p><p>Fun fact, Selyre was originally Ilyre, but I thought that sounded familiar. If you've read A Court of Thorns and Roses (which I haven't because I can't make myself read Tower of Dawn for some reason) by Sarah J. Maas, that was the name of the fae race. So I changed that, but not by much obviously.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. He got lost tryna find another way back home</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>         </p><p>                “Medics, help the Couriers get the wounded into the wagons to be sent back. Everyone else, break and load. We leave at first light.” It’s hard to speak through the blood-soaked cloth of his mask, and even harder to breath, so he pulls it off, lets it fall to the ground and disappear in the mud. The Rallän’s not here. He would never know.</p><p>                “Sir, most of our wielders are going back in those wagons,” Kardra says, pausing in wrapping the nasty looking, but not otherwise debilitating, cut on her arm. He jerks his chin towards the cut and she simply nods and holds out her arm. He wraps his hand around it and Kardra holds in her grunt as the skin beneath his fingers heats and the wound cauterized. When he removes his hand, the red outline of his fingers remains.</p><p>                “Unless you’ve suddenly forgotten how to hold a sword or how to strike a man down, I don’t see the problem here. Or are you not still a trained warrior?”</p><p>                “Of course not, sorry sir.”</p><p>                “Break and load,” he tells her, a reassuring squeeze to the shoulder and he’s gone.</p><p>                During the battle, he’d lost one of his swords. The Rallän will certainly not be happy about that. He trudges out, back through the mud and down the hill, towards what was a battlefield just hours ago, to find it. The rest of his men stay back to pack up their supplies. Halfway down, he pauses near a large, relatively clean looking rock. He unclasps his cloak, and it floats down weightlessly, then his belts of swords and knives and arrows crash on to it. He takes a minute, his hand resting on the sun-warmed rock, his body feeling almost weightless after removing all the weapons. He’s all by himself, not a single preying eye or watching stare.</p><p>                Eventually he pushes off the rock and opens his eyes and heads back into the bloody field. God, it’s going to be impossible to find his one sword amidst all the other discarded weapons and pieces of armor. He can’t find his sword, but he can spot one tiny, plain, dark, wooden ring on one tiny hand. Out of all the hands and shiny things, he finds it.</p><p>                He doesn’t realize he’s falling until his knees hit the ground bruisingly hard. He doesn’t realize he’s crying until the tears land on his hands. He doesn’t realize he’s grabbed the hand until the tears hit his own. And he doesn’t understand why.</p><p>                <em>Every last one means every single one</em>. They would have all died. Why does it matter if it was here or later? Every last one would burn.</p><p>                But his chest still feels tight, and his hands still shake where they hold the ringed one, and the tears still fall, and he doesn’t understand why. He wants to see them all burn. So why does it matter? Why does he care so much?</p><p>                His heart answers and his brain refuses to listen.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>                He’s not mature enough, nor is he humble enough, to not smirk down at Colfren, who had landed squarely on his ass. After weeks of being the bastard’s punching bag, it was about time he hit back.</p><p>                “Looks like someone needs more practice,” he says as he walks over to return his sword to the weapons rack. Tohm is standing right next to it, his hand raised for a high five. It’s not until after the fact that he realizes he returned it. It’s not until after he realized that that he realizes he was smiling.</p><p>                Tohm doesn’t say anything. That’s okay. All the yelling in his head makes it impossible for him to hear anything. The sting in his palm feels nice though.</p><p>                He picks the sword back up off the rack. He needs to kick Colfren’s ass again before he does something he’ll regret.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>                He’s too weak and his body’s too broken to even think of struggling, of fighting as the drag him into the house, drag him down into the basement, chain him down with irons, lock him in the dark. He’s too cold and his body feels too empty.</p><p>                But his men made it, they’re all safe. He closes his eyes as he rests his throbbing check against the cold stone floor.</p><p>                He’s in the lion’s den. Somewhere out there is Tohm and Kerling and Colfren. And Calla and Kenna and Lynri. Shit, Burtlen, Rugter, Claren, everyone in their squad. And it’s ridiculous that he’s worried about them finding out about a handful of people he killed years ago when they’ve literally watched him cut down half their army on the battlefield, right in front of their eyes. But any logical thought like that is out the window (metaphorically since there aren’t any in this fucking basement) because he suddenly can’t breath, and that’s terrifying.</p><p> </p><p>                “Hey, Brin, can we talk?”</p><p>                “Nope.”</p><p>               “After yesterday, I’m just worried about y-”</p><p>               “Then don’t be. Haven’t we been over this already?”</p><p>               “Brillien, we got into a small argument yesterday, you mentioned Ferlyn and started working yourself up over something, I put my hand on your shoulder to try and calm you down, and you stopped breathing. I think that warrants some concern!”</p><p>                “That’s not what happened. You give yourself way too much credit.” He doesn’t slow down, or even look at Tohm. He just keeps walking. He can’t talk to him about it, because then Tohm will know he’s right, then he’ll know something, then he’ll have power. And then, if that happens, Brin is completely screwed.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>                “Why do you defend and fight with and side with monsters such as them?</p><p>                “Tell me, young Brillien, do you know the truth about them, about humans? Do you know the truth of this war? Did they ever bother to tell you who’s really at fault?”</p><p>                He’s not proud, but the minute the hand holds out a scrape of food to him he grabs it and devours it like a starving child because that’s what he is. The chuckle and clawed hand that pets his hair will haunt his dreams for the rest of his life.</p><p>                “The Selyre used to be forest dwellers. We lived and hunted in the trees, our blessed gifts allowed us to grow fruits and vegetables and grains in the fertile forest ground. We were prosperous, we had everything we could ever need. That’s not to say that others lived just as well as us. There was one race, one race who grew too big and too greedy for their own lives. They needed more, they wanted more and they wanted all.</p><p>                “Our forests, rich in resources, wood, rivers, food, game, fertile soil. Everything they wanted more of, we had. You must understand though, we, all races, were blessed with that which we needed. We had what we needed, nothing more, nothing less. The gods saw to that, that we always were in our rightful place. But the humans, they used their resources without care. They took what they wanted, not what they needed. They hoarded, not cherished. And when the gods finally turned their back on them, the humans took what they could not get. Their unblessed greed and jealousy and gluttony brought them right to our doorstep. They did not bother with trade or alliance, they saw and they took. What they could not take, they burned to the ground. What they could not burn, the threw in the rivers, they broke with their weapons, they tore our land apart for its precious resources.</p><p>               “And our people, the peaceful Selyre, they fled. They had never learned to fight, not like that, not against humans with swords and fire and axes. So they fled. No, they did not flee, they were forced out. From their blessed home. For years, they were forced to live in the mountains, in dry and crumbling rocks not suitable for growing, in the harsh winds and snowy peaks with scares resources to live on. Sylva, Sylva was gone, they could not pray to their gods. All was lost, all was destroyed.</p><p>             “Until, years and years later, they grew strong again. The rocks taught them resilience, the wind taught them force, the ice taught them patience. Years had allowed the humans to take their once beautiful homes and destroy them, and years had allowed the Selyre’s rage and sadness to grow. They were done fleeing. It was time to return home.”</p><p><em>            Home. Home?</em> He’s always wanted a home.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>           “I don’t want to leave again Mom! I want to stay; I want a home like everyone else!”</p><p>           “This is home, Brin. Right here. You, me. I love you, Brin. What more could you possibly need for a home?”</p><p> </p><p>          “Welcome to our home, Brin. Calla takes great pride in her decorating skills, even though we have to break down camp every now and then and then she has to pack <em>all</em> the decorations up and then take <em>all</em> the decorations back out each time. But hey, it’s the little things that make it home, right? This is me and Calla’s home, Brin, but it can be yours too. If you want it to, that is?”</p><p> </p><p>          It was time to return home.</p><p> </p><p>         He had always wanted a home.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Chapter title from "Alone" by Nico Collins<br/>This chapter is shorter than the others, and I'm only now realizing this. I actually had everything written before I even posted the first chapter, I'm just taking time to edit my word barf or getting distracted by work and school.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Ashes on the floor, but I'm walking out of here alive</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>             He was scared. It was loud and there were people running and yelling and screaming and his mom had told him to run and he hasn’t seen her since.</p><p>                There was a loud creaking sound, and then the wooden floorboards suddenly collapsed behind him, barely missing his ankles. He couldn’t stay there. He needed to find Mom! Slowly, carefully crawling forward, he poked his head out from the gap in the porch guard. But no one was there. They were all… gone?</p><p>                Where were all the people, the ones who walked by each day as they hid under the porch, praising their goods and low prices? Where were the dogs and chickens that were just as lost and aimless as him, that he would play with and chase all day while Mom was away? Where were the loud and busy homes that use to stand where the ashes now sat, that use to feel as though they were mocking him?</p><p>                Where was his mom?</p><p>                “Mommy?” he whispered, oh so quietly, oh so scared. The small village now seem much too big. It was definitely too big for one little kid all alone, most of the buildings burned down or not. As he wandered down the street, calling for his mother, stumbling over the wreckage, running from the bodies, jerking from the flames, he knew. His little brain somehow <em>knew</em> but didn’t dare tell the rest of his body.</p><p>                So he kept walking, and looking, and yelling for his mommy. He will find her. He has to.</p><p>                <em>This is home. You, me. What more could you need?</em></p><p>                “Mommy!” he called, until his legs finally gave out, tripping and twisting on a large beam sticking out from a collapsed building. It was as if every part of him knew, every part except his eyes saw where he needed to be. So his heart and his knees and his legs dragged him down until he was sitting right next to her. And for a moment, he just stared. Because his eyes still didn’t see. Not through the tears and the burning ashes. Not through the thick smoke and falling soot.</p><p>                When his eyes finally catch up, the rest of his body fails. So all he can do it sit there, and look at her, and cry. Silent, hot, poisonous tears.</p><p>                He was only eight, and he’d already lost anything and everything he’d ever had.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>                “Your mother must have been quite an impressive wielder. With powers such as yours, and in a halfling body at that. Tell me, did you ever have the chance to meet her?”</p><p>                “Yes, sir. It was my father who was Selyre. I never met him, it was only me and my human mother.”</p><p>                “Rallän,” he says absentmindedly. “That’s quite impossible. Human bodies cannot sustain Selyre life. If you are saying that your mother was of human blood, then she would not have survived childbirth. In fact, it’s quite impressive that she survived that long at all, or that you did. In fact…” his voice trails off, and Brin has the chance to look shocked.</p><p>                He can’t help it. And as he stares at Nar-<em>the </em><em>Rallän</em>, his mind is too busy processing to focus on his own reaction and expression.</p><p>                “No, that’s not right. My mom, I lived with her until her death.” His voice shakes and sounds too much like a whining child. But he doesn’t care, his emotions are otherwise too occupied to be embarrassed or ashamed. “She took care of me and we travelled to different villages together and she taught me-”</p><p>                “Now that you mention it, there was one Selyre, years ago I believe, who was an awfully powerful sun wielder. It was believed he’d been lost in battle, a battle that took hundreds of us. Trying to find and identify every body, every piece of every body, it was a fruitless task. Many were never recovered or recorded. But perhaps…”</p><p>                His chair scrapes loudly as he stands up, nearly tipping over. “<em>No</em>. You’re wrong, yo-”</p><p>                “Sit. Now. Stop acting like a petulant child and do not interrupt me again. <em>Ever</em>. Is that clear?”</p><p>                He hesitates, his breath shaking and his eyes blurry and his throat painfully dry when he swallows. Stiffly, he sits back down and nods, his eyes falling to the table and refusing to see any part of the Rallän.</p><p>                “Gods, you’re almost as bad as the humans. The fact that you presume to know more than me is frankly quite insulting. For now, I will let it slide. It must be quite shocking for you. But none the less, the woman you parade around as your mother is no more yours than she is mine. Your real mother you would have killed as you cried and clawed your way out of her womb. Now finish eating, I’ve grown quite bord of this conversation and there are more urgent matters for you to attend to, are there not?”</p><p>                Brin doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t eat anything. He certainly doesn’t cry and his fingers don’t singe the edge of the table he grasps in a white knuckled grip. Certainly not.</p><p>                Apparently, you <em>can</em> lose something you never had.</p><p>                Home. <em>What a fucking lie.</em></p><p> </p><p> </p><p>                “Hey, Brin. What you got there buddy?”</p><p>                Jumping, Brin quickly shoves the paper and charcoal under his belly as Tohm crouches behind his lying form.</p><p>                “Nothing,” he says, his facing burning involuntarily.</p><p>                “Nothing, huh?” Tohm says, sitting on the ground beside him. Brin nods vigorously in response. “You got a little something,” he says, gesturing to the side of his own cheek.</p><p>                <em>Shoot</em>, he’s been caught. “Sorry,” he says, looking away as he pulls the charcoal and now smudged piece of paper out from under him.</p><p>                “Nothing to be sorry about, bud. What have you got there? Looks fun.” He resists the urge to hide his face as Tohm picks up the paper. His grip on the charcoal tightens as Tohm frowns down at the paper. “What’s this for?”</p><p>                “Calla,” he mutters, barely a whisper. “I’m sorry. I just, someone told me it’s her birthday, and I thought, since you took me in and she makes me soup and gives me clothes and-”</p><p>                “Is this a gift for her, Brin?”</p><p>                He misses the laughter and light in the voice, his thoughts already turned to worry.</p><p>                No one would want a gift from an Selyre half-breed, Tohm’s probably disgusted that he thought he could-</p><p>                “She’s gonna love it, bud! It got a little smudged and dirty though. Why don’t we make a new one? I can help you with the spelling and writing if you want.”</p><p>                “You’ll help me?” he asks, his voice full of wonder.</p><p>                “Yeah! Come on, lets finish this up, I already know she’s gonna love it, Brin.”</p><p>                <em>She’s gonna love it</em>. She’ll love Brin’s gift. She’ll love something he made, something he made for her and gave to her. She’ll love it! Then, maybe, <em>maybe</em>, she might like him?</p><p>                And maybe that makes him excited and feel happy and warm and bright for the first time since his mom died. And for the first time, he doesn’t feel guilty for wanting Calla to like him. Because she’ll love his gift.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>                Colfren sneers at him from across the Pit, the large flames flickering like their licking his face.</p><p>                “Ignore him,” a voice sings next to him. “He’s just mad a kid knocked him on his ass.”</p><p>                 “I wasn’t knocking him on his ass a few weeks ago. Or six years ago. I’ll gladly do it now though.”</p><p>                “Some people are just born that way.” Kenna passes him her extra bowl of soup before sitting down beside him. “Again, just ignore him.”</p><p>                He wouldn’t do that. He learned enough times to not look away from someone who wants to stab you in the back. Maybe it was a hard learned lesson, maybe it was just the commons sense he had been lacking for much too long. Whatever it is, his side still stings. Colfren still hasn’t broken his gaze, so he has no intention of doing it either.</p><p>                Then a hand grabs his chin and yanks him around, and he’s so unprepared that he jumps and the soup spills all over his hands, burning, and the handle of the spoon is pressed to the hallow of the person’s throat.</p><p>                “Shit, I shouldn’t have done that, sorry.” Kenna holds up her hand not holding her soup, the offending hand, then gently grabs his wrist attached to the spoon and guides it back down.</p><p>                <em>Shit</em>. He shouldn’t have done that, reflexes and reactions be damned. God, his mind really fucking hates him. Technically, his mind is him, but self-hatred’s not important right now.</p><p>                “Hey!” Colfren shouts, his long, wiry form already at his back. “Get up, now, and get away from her. Let me see your hands.”</p><p>                He would, but Kenna is holding his wrist and gaze still. If not, the fire pit would have swallowed Colfren by now. The fact that it hasn’t yet, that it hasn’t swallowed this whole camp yet, is not important. Plans change, he never said he had a strict deadline. Plus, Kenna’s sitting right in front of him.</p><p>                <em>Every last one</em> was suppose to mean all of them. But he can’t, he physically can’t. Because Kenna’s holding his wrist and telling Colfren to <em>fuck off</em> and Calla made him a pastry and gave him clothes and food and both his mind <em>and </em>heart seem to agree for once that he can’t do that. Not to them. The fire is what roars, what demands to burn, what demands the world and everything in it. It twists his gut painfully and squeezes his heart tightly and pushes against his skull forcefully.</p><p>                And it scares him because it’s never pushed against him before. It’s never tried to take over, to get out before. It has always comforted him, held him together and smoothed all his edges and filled all his cracks and covered all his scars. It’s never felt like this before, never felt so angry and vile and hateful. Hateful of him, disgusted at him. It’s boiling the blood in his veins and drying the water in his throat because it demands. It demands and he’s afraid of it.</p><p>                What can he possibly do against himself? When his very being is trying to tear him apart, when his own body is at war with hitself, when every single inch of him is pulling in a different direction, when every molecule demands to be heard, what can he do but watch himself burn, watch himself break, watch himself turn to ash and disappear?</p><p>                He wants to see them burn. But he wants to see them smile. Something in his chest tears or snaps or melts or burns.</p><p>                He never should have come back. He should have never let them take him. He should have run when he had the chance, so many chances.</p><p>                Let Nalrû-Tohm-the Rallän-the humans- he can’t let them take him. Life has his heart in its hand and his breath in its throat, a mercy and a gift and a threat and a wish all in one. And he should have run, to Tohm-to the Rallän- away when Life gave him the chance. When it squeezed his heart just that little bit more, when it pulled the breath from his lungs just a little too long. What had he done? What had he ever done?</p><p>                <em>Nothing and everything and anything in between</em>.</p><p>                He was born and he lived and he made choices, and now here he was, with his own life burning itself to the ground inside him, threatening to spill from his mouth and eyes and ears and leak to the ground for all to see before it slowly spread and consumed them too.</p><p>                The fire just laughs at him, and he wants it gone. For the first time in his life, he wants it gone. He wants to rip it from his body, scratch and rip and cut himself until it falls from him and all that’s left for people to see is his broken, bloody, human body. Because without it, that’s all he would be. Human.</p><p>                This time when he loses control, when the power erupts and the fire explodes, nothing happens, no one noticed. No one except him because he’s burning alive, from the inside out, and he’s choking on the smoke, and he wants to scream, but the fire dances on his tongue, and the tears dry before they can fall, and it’s turned against him. The last thing he’s ever had hates him. And he’s paying the price. He’s dying alive, and no one notices because no one can see it. No one can see how he’s lost control, how he’s burning alive, how he’s finally, finally empty, how there’s nothing left of him and nothing left for him. Because it’s gone. It’s all gone.</p><p>                And even if he wants to see them burn, it doesn’t matter anymore. He’s lost everything and nothing and anything in between.</p><p>                He’s lost.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Chapter title from "Old Me" by 5SOS<br/>I've done like a fun fact in the end notes for the past three chapter so, fun fact for this chapter, this story started out as a "shower thought" that was lucky enough to be remembered after the shower. In the original idea, Brin was actually an unnamed side character, but had the same story line. Brin was actually the name of a character in another shower thought that I've completely forgotten now.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. Can you find me soon because I'm in my head</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>             </p><p>“Aarrrgh, you fucking bastard!” Colfren collects the arm of his newly dislocated shoulder to his chest and attempts to kill Brin with his eyes. Even his glares are weak. “My shoulder, God damn it! You fucking blood thirsty creatures! This was practice, I was helping you. Are you even capable of doing anything without maiming someone?”</p><p>                “Oh, get over yourself, you self-entitled prick. It’s a dislocated shoulder, you’ll live to bitch another day.”</p><p>                “Acting oh so tough, you fucking brat. How about you come over here, let me pop one out for you. It’s about time someone ta-”</p><p>                “They already have,” he growls, suddenly crouching before Colfren, his sharp canines inches from Colfren’s disgusting nose. “Seven times. In one hour. Then another hour. Then another. Until I bowed before their filthy, fucking Rallän. <em>In. Out. In. Out</em>. Good thing I had two shoulders. Give the other a break every now and then.”</p><p>                By now a considerable size crowd had gathered. If not for Colfren’s arrogance that he could take Brin down single handedly if need be, there would have been a crowd ages ago and Brin would have been eating dirt the minute Colfren’s shoulder let out a faint <em>pop</em>. “I was going to offer to help pop it back in for you, but it seems I’ve come to my sense between now and then. I’m sure someone in your gathered group is a medic.”</p><p>                For once, Colfren offers no wrathful sneer or snide remark. Instead, his eyes remain narrowed and weary. And that has to be the weirdest fucking thing he has ever seen. And he hates it. Because he knows what that means, what Colfren is thinking, what his eyes are looking at. He should have kept his useless mouth shut.</p><p>                “You’re not going to mention a word of what I just said. To anyone. Unless you want your other shoulder dislocated too. Permanently.” Then he stands up and pushes his way through the crowd. Really, not much pushing was necessary. They willingly and readily part around him, a wide berth and protective bubble between him and them.</p><p>                It’s not until he’s reached the meadow, the one hidden through forests behind the camp, that he realizes he’s bleeding. Red runs between his fingers and drops to the ground, oozing from the crescent indents of his fingernails. It’s not until then that he realizes he’s burning, flames dancing up and down both his arms and curling around his shoulders, the sleeves long since disintegrated. They wrap and twist around his arms like living, breathing armor, preventing anyone from getting too close, from touching them, from hurting him.</p><p>                <em>Too little too late</em> he thinks, but still can’t get the fire to go out. He finds it’s because he likes it. The feeling of safety, of something protecting him, of nothing and no one being able to touch and hurt him, of being able to even get anywhere near him. So he burns. His whole body, he burns. Then he sits in the meadow, under a tree, engulfed by flames, watched over and protected and safe.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>                His shoulders ach from the way his body hangs from them, the cuffs digging into his wrists as his body sags against the chains. The strain pulls on the still bleeding gashes in his back, the phantom sting of the whip clouding his mind.</p><p>                “Young Brillien.” He bends over slightly to grab Brin’s chin and force his rolling eyes to focus on him. The claws dig pinpricks into his chin so that the blood slides lazily down his throat. “Have we finally learned our lesson?”</p><p>                “Yes Rallän,” he says. He should have known better by now. It’s been years, plural. A stupid mistake that never should have happened. He’s such an idiot. He should have never let them live. “Sorry, Rallän.”</p><p>                “Hmmm, is that so?” The hand moves down to his shoulder and curls around it, the very tips of the claws reaching a cut and digging in. He shows no indication of the discomfort. The Rallän smirks at that.</p><p>                “Yes, Rallän.”</p><p>                “Good, my boy, very good. Now that you’ve learned you lesson, perhaps only another twelve lashes shall do to serve as punishment, yes?”</p><p>                He swallows painfully. “Yes, Rallän.” His voice sounded rough and dry. The hand in his hair would have been reassuring if not for the way it tugged painfully at the curls with each movement.</p><p>                “Good boy. Don’t forget to count them out for me.”</p><p>                “Yes, Rallän.” The whip makes the weirdest noise as it slides across the blood slick floor.</p><p>                “Ready?” The voice smiles right beside his ear, and he shivers. His feet slip in the blood as he tries to stand.</p><p>                ‘Yes Rall-”</p><p>                <em>One</em>.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>                “No, Brin, that’s not- God, that’s not true! We looked everywhere for you! In every camp we took, in every forest and under every rock. Every Selyre we captured, we asked them where you were. I couldn’t eat, I couldn’t sleep, I couldn’t think straight. All I could think about was finding you. Whenever we returned, and we didn’t have you with us, I cried. Whenever I sat at home, in my wife’s arms with clean clothes and warm food, all I could think about was you, if you were suffering, if you were okay. Never, not once, though, did I give up, not once did I even think there was a possibility that you were dead.</p><p>                “But then we found the bodies. They were tied to stakes in the field, burnt beyond recognition. The only way we knew it was Burtlen and his men was by the scraps of clothing and swords so carefully laid before them. And at the very end of the line, was a small body. A tiny body, a body much too small to be anything but a child.</p><p>                “There had only been one child, Brin. Only one child was missing, Brillien. Ad all the other bodies were those of our missing comrades. So we assumed, we just assumed. What else could we think in that situation? What else could we assume based on that? And I know it means nothing to you, can’t mean anything, but after that day, I cried myself to sleep every night. Every night for a year, Brillien.</p><p>                “But ever since I saw you on that battlefield, I have regretted that decision, Brin. It haunts me every night in sleep. The fact that you were still out there, somewhere, and I gave up. That while you suffered through everything imaginable at that man’s hand, I slept soundly in bed with my wife and my son, safe and happy.</p><p>                “I’m so sorry, Brin. God, I’m so sorry! But you have to understand, how could we have assumed anything else?”</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>                He’s not sure how he got here. First, he was kneeling before the Rallän, his swords strapped to his back, his mind unable to remember what report he was supposed to give, the Rallän only getting angrier and quieter, before he sneered and his clawed hand curled on his shoulder, and he felt the cold, draining, death spread through him. Then, he was being dragged through the halls by his hair, the rough, rock floor scraping and digging into his exposed skin, the hall never ending, the torches getting fewer and farther between, the number of footsteps constantly increasing, the room at the end of the hall grower darker and darker. Then, he was curled on the cold, smooth, stone floor, the chains or ropes wrapped around him like they hadn’t been for so long, unable to move his arms, the door sealed and only darkness surrounding him. Then, the unexpected as fire burst from his hands, the tell-tale nausea of iron and the cold, hungry, empty feeling of being light starved missing, and the chains were not chains, but a blanket, the blue threads turning black as they danced in orange flames, the cell is not a cell, but a room all too familiar and making no sense that it would be here. But what happens then makes even less sense, because he is pulled from the fire, the comforting warmth gone too soon and replaced by the comforting warmth of a person, a person’s gentle, caring touch like nothing he could remember feeling before, and a soothing hand through his hair, and a calming hand on his back, and Calla’s voice whispering right in his ear.</p><p>                <em>It’s okay, I’ve got you. You’re okay, he’s not here. You’re safe.  It’s okay, you have nothing to be sorry for. That’s okay, just let it out.</em></p><p>                And he realizes he’s speaking. He’s apologizing. He’s calling for the Rallän. He’s crying.</p><p>                Calla’s holding him, and he’s lying on her lap in the room he used to stay in six years ago, and he’s crying into her chest as his hands shake where they grip her night gown in a death grip, and he’s calling for Narlû, and he’s scared and aching and anxious and <em>dead</em> and desperate and tired and breaking apart. But not quite. Because Calla’s holding him.</p><p>                She’s holding him so tight his ribs ach and his spine feels like it’s being bent and his body stops shaking and he remembers where he is and he feels safer than he ever has, and he feels comfortable more than anything else. Slowly, so slowly, everything slows back down and becomes focused. Everything before still doesn’t make sense, he still doesn’t know how he got here, but he wants to stay, so he says as much.</p><p>                <em>Of course, Sweetheart. I’ve got you. You’re not going anywhere. We’ll be right here as long as you need. Okay? We’re not going anywhere. I’ve got you.</em></p><p>                He doesn’t know how long it takes, but finally he realizes it was all a dream. Well, memories relived as dreams. Just as bad. No, this felt worse. But at least this time he had someone to hold him after and tell hi-</p><p>                <em>Shit</em>, he’s still crying and shaking in Calla’s arms. He tries to push away, to get away. He doesn’t deserve this. No one should <em>comfort him</em>, not after everything. Not <em>him</em>, a Selyre half born bastard who kills with abandon and burns everything in his path to the ground. He’s not a victim, he’s not supposed to cry and be held and comforted, he wasn’t made to be consoled.</p><p>                The comforting hands become a vice, a too tight trap. He pushes, but they just drag him back in, the hand curled in his hair and at his back a punishing brace.</p><p>                <em>Shhh, it’s okay, I’ve got you. Shh, no, stop, I’ve got you.</em></p><p>                “I’m sorry, Rallän, I’m sorry. It won’t happen again. It won’t happen again, Rallän.”</p><p>                He can’t remember his mistake, but he will stop, it won’t happen again.</p><p>                “Wait, let him go, honey. Let him go.” It’s not the voice of the Rallän, but the warrior lets him go none the less. As he pushes away from them, as his head lifts up, as his eyes taken in the room, he realizes he’s not in the throne room or the cell or anywhere except the bedroom in Tohm and Calla’s house and Tohm and Calla are crouched before him, not the Rallän or the warriors.</p><p>                And it doesn’t make sense again, but he’s suddenly too tired to care, too tired to try and think about anything. All he knows is he’s tired and he wants… he wants Calla to hold him again.</p><p>                “I’m sorry,” he manages, a shaky hand reaching out towards Calla again. But she hesitates, and he curls back immediately, hiding himself as he ducks his head and draws his knees up to meet it, his shaking hands in his lap. <em>I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry</em>. He feels his claws nicking his skin as they rattle against the opposite hand. He lets his eyes fall closed because he’s so tired and every single part of his body suddenly feels too heavy, his feet sliding soundlessly across the floor and his knees fall back to the ground.</p><p>                “It’s okay, Brin. There’s nothing to apologize for, everything is okay. Can I hug you again, would that be okay?”</p><p>                He tries to say yes, he tries to nod, but neither works. Instead, his head jerks a little and the sound he makes is suspiciously close to a whimper. He hears Calla let out something like a sigh, and then he’s wrapped in her arms again, warm and comfortable and safe.</p><p>                Eventually, he falls back asleep and it’s the best sleep, the nicest sleep, the most peaceful sleep he’s gotten in… in his whole life. And when he wakes up, still in Calla’s arms, still warm and comfortable and safe, it’s the best moment in, well, in his whole life.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Chapter title from "IDK you yet" by Alexander 23</p><p>Fun fact for this chapter: Brin was inspired by Jason Todd. Probably more the Arkham Knight (which I only ever watched my older brother play so I just have a general idea of that) than the comics with the "kidnapped and presumed dead, but not really dead and comes back as the enemy" idea. I realized later that Brin also thought the woman who raised him was his mom then later discovered that they weren't biologically related, like Jason and Catherine/Shelia, which was totally unplanned.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0008"><h2>8. It's hard to know they're out there, it's hard to know that you still care</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>               “You know, I don’t think I ever told you. I have a son.” Suddenly all the plans and thoughts in his head freeze and disappear. “I should probably tell you that before we reach the house. He’s a pretty energetic little boy, I wouldn’t want you to be too overwhelmed or anything. But, uh, yeah. Calla, she apparently got pregnant, um, well right before everything. He’s name’s Ferlyn, he’s turning five soon…”</p>
<p>                It’s like his brain has stopped working. The fire has frozen. All because Tohm has a kid? And the curling in his gut and the bitter taste on his tongue, he has no idea what they mean. All he knows is he somehow already hates the kid, but he doesn’t hate him, that’s not right either.</p>
<p>                He can’t hurt a kid, he decides. That’s it. He can’t hurt a kid that wasn’t even alive when he was still living here. The kid had nothing to do with it, no part in it, so he can’t make him suffer for his dad’s mistakes.</p>
<p>                His thoughts catch on the word <em>dad</em>. And his ears keep holding onto the words Tohm speaks about <em>Ferlyn</em>.</p>
<p>                <em>He’s a good kid. He’s super friendly. He’s such a fast learner. You can’t not love him. So cute.</em></p>
<p>                He doesn’t understand why it hurts to hear Tohm talked about his son like that. The fire inside him has shrunk, it so small and his chest fills with cold, biting air. He can’t think of anything but. He can’t feel anything but.</p>
<p>                When he finally figures it out, it terrifies and disgusts him all at once. He might actually throw up.</p>
<p>                His stupid, stupid brain and god damn heart just don’t understand, not like he does.</p>
<p>                But it makes sense, doesn’t it? It makes stupid, perfect, disgusting, shameless sense. That the orphan, bastard, half-breed mutt who hadn’t had anyone who cared about him in such a long time, who hadn’t had anyone who might have thought he was smart and complemented him and thought <em>he</em> was good for so long, would look at the first person to even just smile at him and want that. He had actually looked at Tohm once and thought of him like a dad, or at least wanted to think of Tohm like a dad. Like someone who cared about him and would take him on his first hunt and tuck him in bed at night or hold him after a nightmare. The little kid, shivering in the empty horse stall while his mother went out all night and all day to do he-never-knew what wanted someone, would do anything for literally anyone who would give him that.</p>
<p>                And despite everything that happened, everything he had learned, everything that he had <em>lived</em>, his stupid, <em>stupid</em> brain still thought that way and his heart still made his stomach ache.</p>
<p>                Good thing it would take another ten minutes to get to Tohm’s house on the other side of the settlement.</p>
<p>                Stupid jealousy. As if he ever had any right to feel jealousy about that, as if he ever had any right to even think about Tohm like that. As if he even wants to. He doesn’t need anyone, especially not a fucking <em>dad</em>.</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>                He trips as something hard hit the back of his head. He feels the broken pieces of it fall down the back of his cloak and hides his laugh with a growl.</p>
<p>                “I think we’ve covered enough ground for one day, kid.”</p>
<p>                “You do that again, Trylu, and I will cut off your fingers in your sleep tonight.</p>
<p>                “He’s got a point, Commander. The snow’s coming down heavy right now anyways. We’ll be making little progress in this,” Kardra calls. It’s clear from her voice she’d love the chance to rest for the day. Not surprisingly, Kardra’s words go over a little better in his mind than Trylu’s attack.</p>
<p>                They were supposed to have made it to Yulrien by now, they couldn’t afford to waste a day and be even later than they already were. With a flick of his hand, fire ripples in a straight path ahead of them, melting the snow and turning the falling flakes to water.</p>
<p>                “There,” he grumbles, wishing to stop too, but he’s not going to risk meeting the Rallän in an even worse mood than the one he will undoubtable already be in.</p>
<p>                As he keeps walking, he hears grumbling behind him and the tell-tale clinking and thumping of dropped backpacks and weapons.</p>
<p>                “Come on, kid,” Trylu whines again.</p>
<p>                “What are you planning to do without your men, hm?” Byrunil chimes in, and he has never hated the man more in his life.</p>
<p>                “I’ll tell them the truth,” Brin says, turning around to his men with a smirk. “They got crazy ideas and forgot their places, so I killed them. I’ve been begging the Rallän for better warriors for forever, anyways. At least now I’ll have an excuse and he’ll have to give them to me.”</p>
<p>                “Oof, who knew someone so hot tempered could be so cold hearted?” Garnalt says, feigning surprise with her lips twitching into a smile. They’re winning him over, but he can’t let them know that.</p>
<p>                “With how heavy it’s coming down, we’ll probably end up in the wrong place. Then who’s fault will it be when we’re devoured by wild wood beasts? That doesn’t sound like something a good commander who cares about his men would do,” Byrunil says, trying and failing to make another snowball unnoticed.</p>
<p>                “Yeah, kid! I don’t know about you, but I wouldn’t want that on my conscience for the rest of my life. If you even manage to survive,” Garnalt adds. “Have you even <em>been</em> deep in these woods before? The beasts you’d encounter, I get nightmares just thinking about them again.”</p>
<p>                “Like you’ve been in the woods,” he grumbles to himself. It’s working, God damn it, it’s really working.</p>
<p>                “Come on, kid,” Trylu says, and suddenly there’s a chorus of similar sentiments building in volume. Even Nilre joined in, the usually neutral traitor.</p>
<p>                God damn it! He’d been too focused on Byrunil’s rapidly growing snowball to realize Kardra had disappeared. Not until he felt a solid force bodily shove him from the right, knocking him off balance and sending him quiet literally <em>fly</em> into the foot and a half of snow beside him.</p>
<p>                “Oh no, looks like our commander has been hurt!” Kardra feigns concern. “I guess we’ll have to make camp while he recuperates.”</p>
<p>                He tries to growl, but this time he can’t help but laugh. At this point, there’s really no reason to continue pretending. “Oh, you are so going to pay for that,” he says, turning his head and smiling at the woman standing above him so that his canines glisten in the sun. He grabs fistfuls of snow and springs up. Or he would have if Byrunil hadn’t chosen that exact moment to throw the five-pound snowball he had been building right on his head.</p>
<p>                “Get the kid!” Trylu yells.</p>
<p>                Brin attempts to not melt any and all snow within a six-inch radius of him while trying, and failing, to make snowballs, as the five adults pummel him with their own and shove him into the growing mounds of snow, until Nilre finally takes pity on him and shows him how to properly make his ammunition. Then all-out war finally begins.</p>
<p>                The great Commander of Embers, one of the strongest wielders in a long time, bested by snow. The most feared cadre in the Selyre army, and anyone could sneak up on them now, their weapons too far away to be of any use, their attention to focused on their own little game.</p>
<p>                None of this crosses his mind though, it doesn’t cross any of their minds. He’s <em>happy</em>. He’s having <em>fun</em>. And it’s been so long since he’s felt like this, the feeling is overpowering, it’s all encompassing, it’s too good. So all he can focusing on right now is a snowball fight.</p>
<p>                They’re in the middle of a years long war. They are marching to their next battlefield. Behind and ahead of them lay a trail of bodies and destruction and tragedy.  And Brin is laughing and smiling and having his first snowball fight.</p>
<p>                “You know, kid,” Trylu says, shaking the snow from his hair. “This is good, this is really good. You deserve to laugh more often.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>                “What the fuck do you know?” He knows he shouldn’t, he really shouldn’t, but he can’t anymore. Grabbing the collar of Colfren’s shirt, he drags the man closer until their noses nearly touch. “Why do you deserve to win this war? What makes you the right side of history? What the fuck do you know about any of this, huh? Why do you get to be the knights in shining armor and their the monsters? You think you know anything about any of this? You have no clue.”</p>
<p>                “I’d watch what I say next very carefully if I were you, mutt.”</p>
<p>                “No, I’d listen very carefully if I were you, prick. You don’t get to force them from their homes and take everything from them, then go running, crying monster to your mommy when they finally are able to fight back. In fact, you don’t get to say <em>shit</em> about them, period. You understand?” He’s yelling and he can’t stop. It’s burning him up from the inside out and it’s pouring from his mouth like lava, hot and painful.</p>
<p>                “I’m warning you ki-”</p>
<p>                “Some of them? Yeah, some of them deserve to fucking die! And trust me, I will gladly point you towards them and burn them until they’re nothing but bone.  But some of them? Some of them have no choice. Some of them are good people. Some of them are desperate people. Some of them, their just people fighting a war just like you. So the next time you call them monsters, the next time you go out there, swinging your sword around, remember that their seeing the same thing you are at the ends of <em>their</em> blades.</p>
<p>                “You’re all hypocrites who refuse to look beyond the point of your own sword to see what you’re really aiming at. Go ahead, go out there and keep killing mothers and fathers and sister and brother and sons and daughters and keep believing that you’re somehow the hero of this story, that you’re fighting on the right side of some sort of fucked up wholly war.”</p>
<p>                “Brillien, that’s enough,” Tohm says behind him, his voice low and full of oh so much meaning.</p>
<p>                “No! No, it’s not enough. Because you all still somehow think that-”</p>
<p>                “And what about all the humans you killed, Brin? Did they somehow deserve to die?”</p>
<p>                With a growl, he whips around, his eyes burning. He’s dimly aware of Colfren falling to the ground as he pushes him away.</p>
<p>                “Look, Brin. I understand, I really do. But you have to see where we’re coming from too. The Selyre, they’re not inn-”</p>
<p>                “It’s the Selyre who attacked first,” Colfren growls. “They’re the ones who attacked the peaceful farming village of Rykcana without warning, without provocation. They’re the ones who slaughtered innocents and started this war.”</p>
<p>                “That wasn’t the start of this war,” he says, his eyes still trained on Tohm’s. “If the humans hadn’t reached beyond their lands, hadn’t grabbed more than they were due, hadn’t taken what wasn’t theirs, none of this <em>ever</em> would have happened. Humans were the ones who attack, without warning, unprovoked, the Selyre. Humans were the ones that killed and slaughtered innocents until the Selyre were forced to leave so that the humans could hav-”</p>
<p>                “Oh, the perks of being a half-breed. Don’t like something the humans have done? Well, then you’re a Selyre! Don’t like something the Selyre have done? Suddenly you’re a human! Don’t like what either have done? Well, you’re only half of each species anyways.”</p>
<p>                It was a good thing that people had either taken the hint and left, or moved towards Colfren, behind Brin’s back. Good for Brin’s sake.</p>
<p>                He couldn’t remember what happened next, but Tohm would never forget. He would have a vivid and clear enough memory for the both of them. The way his face just…<em>broke</em>. There was no other way to describe it. His eyes wide in shock, his mouth still open mid argument, but his eyes, dead, the fire gone out.</p>
<p>                After Colfren finished talking, Brin can’t remember what happened next. It was like his brain froze, Colfren's words were the only thing ringing in his ears. Over and over and over again. It hurt, it burned, it hit hard, and fast, and he couldn’t breathe. And then all of a sudden all he could hear was the words and he couldn’t feel any of the pain, just ragged breaths through his chest. And that was a good thing. For once, it didn't hurt just to exist</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>                “Listen, Brin. People, they’re going to look at you weird sometimes. And a lot of times, people may not act the kindest towards you or be as welcoming towards you, but I want you to understand why.”</p>
<p>                “I already know people don’t like me,” he grumbles under his breath, but sit and listens none the less. When Tohm had come home, he’d looked at Brin right away, and he’d smiled and told Brin that he wanted to talk.</p>
<p>                “You know who the Selyre are, right?” A nod. “And you know you’re half Selyre, right?” Another, smaller, more hesitant nod. “The Selyre are a bad people, Brin. The have hurt many, many innocent people and have plans to hurt many more. Many people here, at the settlement have personally or had people they care about hurt by the Selyre. Do you understand?”</p>
<p>                No, he doesn’t understand why they’re talking about this, but yes, he understands what Tohm is saying. He’s part Selyre, and people don’t like Selyre, not human people at least. No one was ever going to like him. He was bad and wrong and mean, and he had hurt so many people.</p>
<p>                “But, the sins of the few don’t have to reflect the actions of the many. You may be part Selyre, but you don’t have to be someone people are scared of. You can be good, Brin, really good. You can help people and protect the innocent. You can help <em>us</em> to stop the bad Selyre from hurting more people, Brin. If you do that, you can make people see that you are not bad. You may be part Selyre, but that part does not define you, Brin. You can be good, and you can help people. Don’t let the actions of the Selyre dictate what you do and who you are. And don’t let the judgement of other people do the same. Prove them wrong. Prove them all wrong. Help us do good, Brin.”</p>
<p>                “Okay,” he says. Because he wants to be good. And he wants people to like him. And he wants to help Tohm and make him proud and be liked by him.</p>
<p>                He would do anything Tohm asked.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Chapter title from "Dead Hearts" by Stars</p>
<p>Fun fact for this chapter: The snowball scene was inspired by me wanting some fun, lighter stuff happening (which you can tell by that scene alone being about 1,000 words and my chapters usually averaging around 2,000-2,500 words), but also the second snow storm we had in one week. I had just finished shoveling the foot or so of snow off our driveway (which is about 200 meters long), so snow was very much on the mind.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0009"><h2>9. The sacrifice of the broken, losing the purest of what's in your heart</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>                “You just… I don’t… Why would… It doesn’t make sense, you shouldn’t… How could you… I…I’m not…You can’t- <em>couldn’t</em>…”</p><p>                “Brin, please, just listen. I know I’ve said it so many times in the past few weeks, hell in the past few minutes, and I know it’s hard for you to believe, especially after everything they filled you head with, but I am sorry. I’m <em>really sorry</em>. But everyday that I see you, walking around, practicing with your sword, using your power so free and carelessly, smiling with Calla and Kenna, God, I’m thankful every single time. Because you’re here, you’re alive, and you’re safe, and you’re back with us, and we have you again. And I can’t wait for the day you <em>feel </em>safe and happy and comfortable with us again, but I can wait all my life if that’s how long it takes. Takes to convince you, takes to make you trust us again, takes to make you feel happy again. Brillien. I will wait forever, and I will do whatever it takes. Because I know now what it feels like to lose someone, someone you are about, to lose you kid, and I will do anything to never have to feel that again. The thought of you being hurt, of you being scared, of you being alone. God, Brin, I just…”</p><p>                “Your…kid?”</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>                He can barely stand, his knees long since gone numb from kneeling on the stone floor. His legs and arms shake from lack of food and water and probably blood. His head is both fuzzy and pounding from lack of sleep. He can still feel the burn in his wrists and ankles from the iron cuffs, so at least he knew he was still alive. Barely.</p><p>                Narlû sits on his throne, his head tipped casually to the side, resting in his hand as he stared down at Brin. He’d be ashamed to admit it, but he doesn’t have the energy to do anything but sag in the hands of the guards holding him up by his shoulders.</p><p>                “Well, little one,” Narlû says. “I must say, you look very different in the light. I haven’t yet determined if that should mean anything though.”</p><p>                “You definitely look uglier than I expected,” he says, or tries to say. His mouth barely moves and his tongue more or less refuses to cooperate. The warrior on his left growls and shakes his shoulder painfully. The warrior on his right just tightens his grip and prevents Brin from falling on his face.</p><p>                <em>How nice of him</em>.</p><p>                “Well,” Narlû says, claping his hands once excitedly and leaning back in his chair, crossing one leg over the other, his eyes alight with… with something that Brin does not want to know.</p><p>                “Ready for what?” he attempts to growl out. “Can I finally kick your ass now?”</p><p>                Narlû’s smirk grows wider and his eyes crazier. The warriors release Brin’s shoulders suddenly, and it takes all of his concentration to not end up in a pathetic pile on the ground. “<em>Bow</em>, little one.”</p><p>                The laugh that bubbles up from his chest is the weirdest feeling mixed with his uncertainty, anxiety, and emptiness. “And where is this great, honorable person I’m suppose to bow to? I can wait.”</p><p>                Narlû chuckles. “Bow before you <em>Rall</em><em>än</em>, little one.”</p><p>                He forces the smirk to stay on his face. “Never heard of him.”</p><p>                “Start with the left.”</p><p>                Before he could reply, or even really start to try to understand what that means, he figures out. Well, his pain receptors do. He gasps, then he screams, and he can’t help it. All he can do after is breath heavily through the pain. Luckily, his brain is too preoccupied with it to be embarrassed by the tears and snot already running down his face.</p><p>                His own scream echoes too loudly in his head for him to hear Narlû stand from his throne and walk towards him. “I can make it stop, little one. I can make it all better. All you have to do, my boy, is <em>bow</em>.”</p><p>                “Fuck. You,” he says between gasped, shaking, sobs.</p><p>                Narlû just chuckles, before placing his hand, in a mockery of kindness, on his burning shoulder. “It’s your choice. I can help you at any time, whenever you’re ready.” He stands back up and walks back to his throne and sits back down on his antagonistic ass. “Go ahead with the right one.”</p><p>                “Sir,” the warrior holding his right shoulder, his grip turned light and barely there, says. He would be surprised to find out the warriors can fucking talk if he could think about anything except his poor right shoulder. “He’s just a kid-”</p><p>                “Warrior,” Nalrû says, his voice sharp. “If you feel you can no longer perform your duty as one of my warriors, I will gladly relieve you of your duty.”</p><p>                The warrior stays silent, stays gentle, for all of a few seconds. “No, sir, of course not, my Rallän.”</p><p>                This time, Brin is better prepared. He still screams.  But he will not give. He will not bow, not to the fucking <em>Rall</em><em>än</em>, not a monster like him.</p><p>                But eventually, he would. Eventually, he would bow willingly and readily. Eventually, he would do whatever the Rallän asked. Eventually, he would welcome the pain.</p><p>                Eventually the warrior would go on to refuse to call him Commander and, secretly affectionately, only call him “kid.” Brin would glare and scowl and grumble every time, but eventually the glare would be entirely just for show. Brin wouldn’t remember having ever seen the warrior before, but the man would remember exactly who Brin was. He could still clearly hear his screams, could clearly see the slight bump in both his shoulders whenever he wasn’t wearing his cloak and armor, could clearly feel the fire, the determination, the <em>hatred</em> in his eyes.</p><p>                And he worried. Because when he looked into the kid’s eyes now, they were entirely the same and wholly different. The bright light of determination and rebellion had been replaced by the deep red, razing fires of desire and hatred. It was a glaring, blinding, all-consuming rage to hide everything that was missing behind it. Behind it was the emptiness of someone who had long ago determined, who had forever ago decided, who had finally learned that all he could do was burn, and burn, and <em>burn </em>himself down until there was nothing left and everyone around him would go with him, whether he wanted that or not. That meant he wouldn’t stop. That meant he didn’t care what happened to himself. That meant he would only ever believe he could hurt and be hurt. That meant there was no saving him.</p><p>                If he truly believed that, if he truly believed that his life was just death and destruction and pain, then the man would be there. He would be there every time to pull the kid’s ass out of the fire.</p><p>                He never wants to hear those screams again. And with every weak flick of his wrist, with every harsh snap of the whip, with every jerk and shaky breath and scream of the kid, the man hates himself a little more. There’s nothing he can do, not as the Rallän stands in the corner watching.</p><p>                As soon as the Rallän says the word, the man drops the whip. It takes everything in him to follow the rest of the cadre out of the cell, the voice of the Rallän imploring if the kid had learned his lesson making him want to turn back around and grab the kid and run. But he can’t. Not if he wants to live another day to ensure the kid lives another.</p><p>                So he picks up the snowball, and throws it at the kid, and the smile and sound of his laugh gives the man hope that maybe, <em>just maybe</em>, the kid might make it out of all of this alive.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>                “Well, well, well, Sir Brillien, what beasts have we slayed today?” Lynri asks as she waltz into the healers’ tent. Every time he comes in with another injury, Lynri and he recount the tails of his injury, slaying dragons, hunting griffins, outsmarting pixies.</p><p>                He can’t make himself play along this time, though. It doesn’t feel right. With every sniffle, his side shifts and it hurts a thousand times more.</p><p>                “Brin?” Lynri asks, concern lacing her voice as she turns around, the basic first aid supplies in hand. “Oh, Brin, what happened?” Her voice is now dripping with pity and surprise as well.</p><p>                Brin just shakes his head, not looking up from his feet. He lifts his sleeve to wipe the tears away and regrets it immediately as his shirt pulls against the burn decorating his left side.</p><p>                “Another dragon, then, I suppose?” Lynri sits down, kneeling before him and gently takes the hem of his shirt in hand while the other pokes at the burned edges around his exposed red, blistering skin. He shakes his head, looking to the side so he won’t have to see the look on her face, in her eyes, when she realizes. “Not up to it today, huh? Can you lay down on your side for me, sweetheart?” He does. Lynri begins to treat the burn and he can’t help the whimper and sob.</p><p>                “It was an accident,” he says quickly, rushes to say.</p><p>                “Who did this?”</p><p>                “It was an accident,” he says again. A few, painful moments pass silently.</p><p>                “Do you want to know something really exciting, Brin?” He nods. “Look.” She holds out her hand to him, palm up and open. In it sits a round band of dark wood. “Go ahead, you can take it, but be <em>very</em> careful, okay?”</p><p>                Curiously, Brin picks up the ring. All around the band, a design has been carved. On one side, lies a blossoming peony, large and reaching, the petals curling around the sides of the band and tickling the other half of the design. The steam of the flower and leaves curl back around the band, gradually shifting in the back to feathers, attached to a long tail. The other end of the band reaches the flower in the form of an eagle, the beak long and elegant, gently tucked behind the petals of the flower, its wings tucked around the sides of the band like the leaves and petals.</p><p>                “It’s so pretty!” he says, smiling. “Wait!” He jerks up, then immediately regrets it as pain screams up his side as loud as Lynri’s protest. “Are you and Reylelle married now?”</p><p>                Lynri laughs as she gently pushes him back down, shaking his head at his abrupt movements but glad to see him smiling. “Not yet. It’s a promise ring. It’s a promise that he will marry me in the future. That he’ll always love me. That he’ll always be by my side, and stuff like that. No matter what.”</p><p>                “No matter what?”</p><p>                “Yes, no matter what,” and she says it like she wants to laugh, but the question also makes her sad.</p><p>                “That’s so… beautiful. It’s so beautiful.”</p><p>                “Reylelle would love it if you told him that. He made them. He has a matching one. I’m sure if you asked him next time you train, <em>after</em> you have fully healed, he will gladly tell you all the details.”</p><p>                So, after weeks of waiting for Lynri to give him the all clear, actually <em>wanting</em> to train and looking forward to it, he does. And Reylelle lights up the minute he asks, the bow and arrow practice completely forgotten. Reylelle tells him the idea behind the design, finding the perfect wood, planning the perfect date to give it to her, planning the perfect speech, the actual moment, and Reylelle lets him hold the ring the entire time. They talk about it all afternoon, and never actually get around to training. Brin doesn’t mind in the slightest. He doesn’t even notice.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>                “You know, Brin, I showed you my trick all that time ago, and you still haven’t shown me yours.”</p><p>                “What? Oh, I-I didn’t mean to, I just forgot. I can show you right now,” he says, stumbling over his words. He hadn’t meat to hide it or keep it from Tohm, he hopes Tohm believes that.</p><p>                “Whoa, wait, Bud, not here. We don’t want everyone to know your trick, right? If everyone knows, then it’s not as special. I know the perfect place, though. It’s where I practice a lot of my tricks.”</p><p>                He nods, nervously, quickly running along behind Tohm. His trick, he’s not very good at it. And it’s not anything special. And it’s not very useful. Tohm would be disappointed. What if he didn’t need him anymore? What if Tohm decided that he wasn’t worth the trouble anymore, not if he couldn’t do anything to help?</p><p>                “Tohm?” he asked hesitantly, stopping in his tracks just a few feet from the forest edge.</p><p>                Tohm stops a second later, a large gap forming between the two of them, and he can already feel the disappointment, like there was too much for the future to hold and it’s spilling over into the present. “What’s wrong, Bud?”</p><p>                “My…trick, it’s not very…useful.” He can’t look up, he doesn’t want to see what face Tohm makes when he’s disgusted or let down or angry or anything that Brin knows is coming. After everything ends, he wants to at least remember Tohm smiling at him instead.</p><p>                “Everything is useful, Brin,” Tohm says, kneeling in the dirt before him to see his eyes, and the first thought that pops into his head is <em>he’s getting his pants dirty for me</em>? “You just have to be patient and wait for the right moment to find it’s purpose. Plus, I think I’ll judge for myself whether or not I think your super cool, awesome trick is worthy of someone as great as you.” He’s still too nervous, so he just nods, lets Tohm take his hand, guide him through the path in the woods and away from the stares of everyone in the Pit.</p><p>                He willingly kneeled in the dirt, he smiled at him, he told him that he was <em>cool, great, awesome</em>, he’s holding him hand. And Brin thinks of his mother. On the rare nights she would be there, holding him in her arms under the porch, in the empty stalls, beneath the trees, keeping him warm, making him feel safe. On the rare days he woke up and she was there, and they would walk through town, a hood pulled tightly over his curls, hand in hand, from cart to cart, peanuts to popcorn to chicken, until his feet ached from walking all day, his stomach felt warm and full, and his face hurt from smiling all day.</p><p>                And since that day, for the first time, he feels like that again. The warmth in the pit of his stomach, the arch in the corners of his mouth, the tingling in his fingertips and toes, the lightness of each step. And his hand, it feels so warm, so comfortable in Tohm’s hand. It’s like his hand fits perfectly in Tohm’s, like each inch of skin connects, and each receptor is awake and alive and shooting back and forth, from Tohm to him to Tohm again.</p><p>                When Tohm lets go, it’s nothing like when his mom did. The air doesn’t immediately shoot between them, like it’s pulling them apart. The cold doesn’t immediately seep in and leech out the warmth. His chest doesn’t constrict and hurt. His heart doesn’t clench in fear, in worry, in the feeling of impending and inevitable loneliness.</p><p>                When Tohm lets go, the warmth, the smile, the tingle, it’s all still there.</p><p>                “Alright, Brin, this seems like the kind of place to show your hidden trick. You ready, Bud?” Tohm walks to the tree in the middle of the field, siting beneath it in the shade.</p><p>                Brin nods, emboldened by the warmth still spreading through him. And that makes it even easier to find his power. The spark usually hidden, the embers that he usually has to dive through everything to find, the warmth usually smothered by coldness, it’s right there, right on top, it’s filling him, it’s not something he has to find and drag up, it’s everywhere and he just has to open his eyes and skim his fingers lightly across the overflowing warmth.</p><p>                So he does.</p><p>                And the look on Tohm’s face makes the warmth even warmer, which makes it shine even brighter. The light slipping between his fingers washes up his arms. The light emanating from his checks spread to his eyes. All the warmth that Tohm put into him spills out. It feels like it’s unlimited, never ending warmth, as though he could shine and shine forever.</p><p>                And when he hears Tohm saying <em>it’s beautiful</em> and <em>that’s amazing</em>, if possible, he shines even brighter.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Chapter title from "Red" by Survive Said the Prophet.<br/>If you have never watched/read Banana Fish, I highly recommend it, even if you don't like anime. I was super bored during winter break with no classes and technically still being in quarantine, so I decided to give anime a try. I honestly had no idea what to expect, but oh my goodness, it was insane and intense and just SO good! Trust me, the name may seem silly, but the story is anything but. If you're looking for something new to watch or are bored, please give Banana Fish a try.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0010"><h2>10. I'll be good for all of the times I never could</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>                “Arlot, you fucking bastard.” He can feel the flames leaping from his mouth, the smoke pouring from his every pore, the fire in his eyes turning his vision red. His eyes land on Arlot the minute he steps onto the training grounds, the energy crackling across his skin seeking the man out, pulling him towards the prick.</p>
<p>                “Whoa, friend, who do you think you’re talking to there?” Arlot asks, pushing the tip of his sword into the dirt and leaning on the hilt.</p>
<p>                He grabs the man by the front of the shirt and doesn’t stop, pushing the man off balance and walking until Arlot’s back hits the wooden post of the weapons rack.</p>
<p>                “You’re going to stay away from Kenna from now on, do you hear me?”</p>
<p>                “Look, Brin, friend, I don’t know what you’ve been told but-”</p>
<p>                “Don’t fuck with me, Arlot, don’t you dare even try. If you ever try and do that again, if you even look at her or think about her that way, I will hunt you down, I will burn you alive, and I will dump your ashes in the river so no one will ever find you. Is that clear.” Behind him, he can hear the clatter and shuffling of moving bodies. He tenses, bracing for the impact. He’s satisfied now. The look in Arlot’s eyes, the way they darken and widen, the way the blue eyes glaze over for a second, the message was received, loud and clear.</p>
<p>              The way his hands, fisted in Arlot’s shirt, warmer slightly may have helped. The fact that he had enough self-control to not make Arlot’s whole shirt burst into flames must say something with the way he can feel them clawing his insides to escape, to burn and destroy and kill. When he breaths, he can see the smoke coming from his nostrils. He’s gritting his teeth to prevent the flames from crawling out.</p>
<p>             He pushes Arlot away, who stumbles back and whose flailing arms get caught on a hanging sword. He squares his shoulders, plants his feet, and balls his fists in front of him to lower the chance of swinging them when the approaching figures grab him.</p>
<p>                 But they don’t.</p>
<p>                “Mr. Terniy, what is he talking about?”</p>
<p>                “He doesn’t know what he’s talking about, it was nothing.”</p>
<p>                “It doesn’t sound like nothing,” another voice says.</p>
<p>                “What the fuck did you do, Terniy,” a third says.</p>
<p>                And all of them are looking at Arlot, all of them are advancing on Arlot, all of them are believing <em>Brin</em>.</p>
<p>               Instead of kicking him down, they’re all <em>believing him</em>, they’re <em>listening to him</em>, they’re <em>supporting him</em>.</p>
<p>              And it doesn’t make sense. His fire disappears, like it’s been sucked back in, like it’s pulled itself back and hidden inside, where no one can see it. In its absence, though, something else fills him. A different type of warmth. Not a raging burn, but a calm, soothing warmth. A good warmth.</p>
<p>                It doesn’t make sense, but he doesn’t think he can complain.</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>                The blades are unlike any other he’d seen of held before.</p>
<p>                “These, my boy, were made special for you. Consider these like a… graduation present. From me to you, little one.” The Rallän reaches out a hand, brushing his fingertips across the clear, glass-like vein across the tops of the blades. The way the Rallän stands at his side, curving around his body, feels strangely intimate. “A warrior needs a good weapon, and a commander needs a special blade. Give me your hand.”</p>
<p>                He hesitates, feeling the purpleish, long fingered, clawed hand wrapped around his back and stretch out in front of his left side. He hesitates, seeing the way the other hand curls around the hilt of one of the twin swords.</p>
<p>                “Come,” the Rallän says, wiggling his fingers for emphasize. With a shudder, he places his hand in the open palm.</p>
<p>                The expected empty feeling follows, the cold crawling from his fingers, up his arm, to his shoulder, the heavy feeling coming next, held up only by the Rallän’s grasp on it. Beside him, the Rallän inhales, then exhales sharply, the warm breath grazing over his neck and shoulder. He wants to pull away, but he won’t, he would never dare.</p>
<p>                Before him, the blades begin to glow. Slowly, the clear vein begins to grow red, bright and burning, spreading from hilt to blade tip. His power flowing out from him, to the Rallän, then into the blades. <em>His </em>blades.</p>
<p>                “Grab the other one, little one. Feel the power you posses with them in hand.”</p>
<p>                With his free hand, he reaches out carefully and grabs the empty blade. As soon as it touches his skin, he feels it. The way it calls out to him, the way it tugs, can feel it poking at the fire in his stomach, hungrier and more desperate than him, more willing than him to begging for more. He knows the feeling, the ache of his heart, the clawing at his stomach, the screaming of his mind. So he gives them what they want. He willingly opens himself, allows them to take and take whatever they need, allowed them to reach and take as much as they want, opens himself to them like he never had for anyone before. As the fire moves between his hand and the hilt, he can feel it, like a bridge being built by burning between the two of them. Like the fire is melting the metal of the hilt and the flesh of his palm to mold them around each other.</p>
<p>                The power leaves him, the swords drain him, but it’s not like the Rallän’s, it doesn’t leave him feeling cold and empty and heavy. It’s like an extension of himself. Suddenly, he can feel the air, crisp and clear. He can feel the grain of the table beneath it, the glare of the sun off the tip of it. He opened himself up to them, he let them take, and now it is paying him back, it is a part of him.</p>
<p>                He feels things he never felt with anyone before. Trust, respect, gentleness, thanks, appreciation, connection.</p>
<p>                He feels the Rallän shift the grip on his hand, turning it over and slipping the missing blade into it. He feels it all over again. He feels powerful. Like, for once in his life, no one can stop him, like he will never be scared.</p>
<p>                “My gift for you, little one. You have proven yourself worthy of such power, do not let them go to waste. Wield these on the field with pride. Never back down, never surrender, never show weakness. Do you understand? These are yours, but do not forget what they mean. Make me proud, little one. Make me proud.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>                The look in her eyes makes him wish he never came back. The fire burns inside him as if in agreement with her. It’s making him nauseous.</p>
<p>                He’d told Tohm he didn’t need to go. His shoulders dislocated too easily after repeated dislocation, the cut on his arm was barely a flesh wound compared to past injuries, and he could barely even feel the ribs injury, which were probably just bruising, not a break. He doesn’t know why he actually listened to Tohm and came here in the first place.</p>
<p>                She doesn’t say anything. She doesn’t move. She doesn’t change her glare.</p>
<p>                He swallows. He bits his tongue. He digs his nails into his palm to distract from the burning in his stomach. To take the picture of a ringed hand, lying lifeless in a puddle of blood and mud, still open, reaching and searching out of his mind.</p>
<p>                He breaths out harshly so that he can feel the ache in his ribs again. He shifts so that is shoulder burns and arm stings again. He lets the fire grow, waits for it to turn his insides to ash and to flood his vision.</p>
<p>                “Brillien,” she says finally, her voice flat and empty and distant. He has the sudden unreasonable, unexplainable, undeserved urge to cry. He bites his tongue harder, digs his nails in deeper, and makes the fire burn hotter. He doesn’t know why, but he wants to hurt just as much as his insides do. The energy dancing across his skin stings and pricks. He wants to run. The Commander of Embers, who could burn the whole village down, who could kill everyone in the whole village in a matter of minutes… but won’t. And he wants to run, to hide, to fall apart and break in peace.</p>
<p>                He nods. She glares. “Did you…were you the one who… <em>him</em>?”</p>
<p>                He shakes his head.</p>
<p>“Did you know?”</p>
<p>                He shakes his head.</p>
<p>                “Did you see him?”</p>
<p>                He hesitates, then he nods his head.</p>
<p>                “<em>Why?</em>”</p>
<p>                He shakes his head.</p>
<p>                “<em>No</em>! No, do not give me that, Brillien. He cared about you, he worried about you, he talked about you, Brillien. Every day. So why? Tell me <em>why</em>.”</p>
<p>                He starts to shake his head, then stops. He opens his mouth and chokes on the smoke. He tries, but he can’t because he doesn’t know. And he tries, he tries for Lynri, but his mind is full of screams and blood and death and pain, and everything else is covered in ashes, clouded and foggy. Because everything was wrong, was a lie, was gaslighting fires and smokescreens. And now, now he doesn’t know. Nothing makes sense because anything makes sense. He thought that he cared about Lynri and Reylelle, but then, he also thought that he was dedicated to his Rallän- <em>Narlû, Narlû, Narlû, there’s no fucking </em><em>Rallän</em>. He thought Selyre were bloodthirsty beasts, but then, he also thought that humans were savage monsters. He thought that Tohm and Lynri and Calla and Kenna and everybody and anybody cared, but then, he also thought that it was impossible for everybody and anybody to care.</p>
<p>                He thought and he thought and he thought, and it doesn’t make any sense. It doesn’t make sense.</p>
<p>                <em>Why? Why? Why?</em> He’s drowning. His lungs are drowning and his heart is drowning and his brain is drowning in smoke and blood and ash and pain and embers. And it hurts. Everything <em>fucking hurts</em>. The fire has finally burned down the walls, the support beams, and the protective encasings, leaving everything inside to collapse in on itself, to allow all the pain out. And it hurts.</p>
<p>                And all it took was one look, one question, and he’s never felt more lost, more helpless, more hopeless. Not as a child, hiding in an empty animal stall, the roof leaking, the wind howling, his stomach attacking him because he cannot feed it, his body shaking because he has not yet learned to warm it, his heart and mind and eyes refusing to settle because he wants his mom, he wants her to hold him and keep him warm and tell him that the storm will pass, that everything will be okay, but knows that she will not come, she will not appear, and he will be alone. Not as an adolescent, cowering under the hateful glares of men, hiding in the corner of a dark cells, rocking his burning ankles and wrists close to his chest, crying unanswered tears for his dead mother, shaking in the cold, windowless room, afraid of the dark and every floorboard above him that creaks, learning to hate himself. Not as a teenager, broken and beaten and tortured and starved every day in every way, surrounded by the very monsters he was taught to fear, choking on his own cries because weakness will only kill him faster, shivering with the knowledge that he has been abandoned, that he will never be saved because no one ever cared, his heart ripping in two as the lies he told himself that held the two halves together dissolved right before him eyes.</p>
<p>                “Brillien! Brin, stop! Brin!”</p>
<p>                He blinks, and he can feel the dried tear tracks on his checks. He can feel them as they leaking from his eyes and drying instantly in the heat.</p>
<p>                He blinks and he sees the fire, surrounding him, protecting him, hiding him and his weakness from the world. Hiding his vulnerable, fragile being, and daring anyone to even try getting close, to even dare think of ripping it open again.</p>
<p>                He stops. The fire stops. The tears, the sobs, the hitched breaths, the pain, the screaming in his mind, the pulsing, stabbing confusion, and ach in his shoulder and ribs and bicep do not.</p>
<p>                “I’m sorry,” she says.</p>
<p>                “I didn’t know that” she says.</p>
<p>                “But I need to leave,” she says.</p>
<p>                Another lie dissolves right before his eyes, one he didn’t even know was there, one he didn’t even know he told himself and believed. He still feels his heart falling apart as painfully as it had the last time.</p>
<p>                “Please,” he says.</p>
<p>                “I can’t,” she says.</p>
<p>                He leaves.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Chapter Title from "I'll Be Good" by Jaymes Young</p>
<p>So, I meant to post this ages ago, but there was something in the last two chapters I needed to fix that I kept pushing off and school got busy, so I kind of just forgot about this cause it was all written and I wasn't working on it. Sorry, but here it is now!</p>
        </blockquote><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Thanks for reading and I hope you enjoyed! Please let me know if the rating seems wrong or I need some sort of warning. This type of story telling is honestly my favorite cause it's fun to connect the dots as the story progresses, but I don't know how good I am at actually writing it and making it make sense.<br/>Again, any and all comments, tips, criticisms, or just plain old validation are welcome! Please be gentle, I'm super nervous.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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